On My Own Terms
by SuperSonic21
Summary: When Sherlock wakes up after the incident at the pool, he's given the chance to go back and identify everyone who was responsible and helped Moriarty using the Source Code technology. It's the most difficult case he's ever had to solve . . . Post TGG AU.
1. An Introduction

_**AN: Recently I watched the film 'Source Code', and I couldn't stop myself from thinking that a Sherlock crossover with it would be a good thing for me to write. So yes, this is a Source Code crossover, but don't run a mile! You don't need to have seen the film. In fact, the ending is better if you haven't seen the film. **_

_**I hope you agree that this was a good idea! There will be some mild S/J implications along the way.  
><strong>__**Let me know what you think, and thanks for reading! – B.**_

_**DISLCLAIMER: I do not own the rights to Sherlock or Source Code; I make no money from this. **_

* * *

><p>"I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind," The Irishman drawled, his voice echoing against the pale tiles of the floor and out across the electric blue rippling waters of the pool. He stared at his opponent's back, a smirking, taunting smile stretching across his small face as he surveyed his sharp, lean black suit. His hands were in his pockets, almost as if he were being blasé about the situation, though it would seem impossible.<p>

The tiny, flickering crimson light on the bomb vest twinkled in a rhythmic, sickening pattern on the floor, discarded but still haunting.

Sherlock's grimace pulled down the corners of his mouth, contorting his pale face to a sad, angry expression. He glanced over at John, who was staring up at him, open-mouthed, eager and attentive. _Sherlock must have a way out of this. Sherlock can get us out._

But he had nothing, and his face said as much. He watched heartbroken as John's usually steadfast, usually optimistic eyes wilted, grew sad and afraid. It wasn't the first time he'd faced death, but Sherlock felt like this would be the worst time.  
><em>He trusted me. He trusted me, and look where it got him.<em>

He summoned the last of his strength. He wouldn't go out without having the last word, for both his and John's sake. He glanced one last time at John, whose expression told him _yes, I think we're going to die today Sherlock_. And Sherlock was sorry with the little part of his heart that he'd allowed himself to keep after trying to rid himself of all other emotion. He hoped John knew.

"And my answer has probably crossed yours," Sherlock replied, trying to keep his voice from cracking, turning around to face his enemy. With a herculean effort, he dragged his pale eyes up to look Jim Moriarty in the eyes, though it was like torture. He did it for John, and for himself. He had been too proud to ask for help with the case; he wasn't going to let his pride get in the way of doing something heroic right now, when it mattered, for the last time.

He aimed the British Army L9-A1 at the bomb vest on the floor, and glanced over at his friend: crumpled shirt, tatty cardigan, jeans stained with something he wanted to believe wasn't blood. He'd been through too much. He looked him in his brown eyes, and saw the doctor nod once in approval.

Across the pool, Moriarty's gentle psychopathic smile jeered at him, bitter and maniacal. How could he smile in the face of certain death? The idea was impossible.

And yet . . . The sleuth smiled too.

He'd finally learned something new; found something truly worth having. He'd found John, and he'd learned to love. He'd made a friend, and now he was going to die by his side. It was too soon, yes, but it's all he could have ever wanted, though he assumed John was too fraught with fear to feel the same way. He smiled at John, though he was afraid it would be misinterpreted as something crazy or unhinged.

But in the fraction of a second before he squeezed the trigger, he could have sworn he'd seen the doctor smile back at him the same way: for some reason, it didn't seem crazy at all to be happy.  
>It was beautiful, and it was all he needed to see before –<p>

* * *

><p>"-John . . .?"<p>

Sherlock awoke with a start, his eyes whipping open, staring into complete darkness, totally unaware of his surroundings. How . . . How did he get _here_?

He registered awareness of his body: torso, legs, feet, arms, hands, fingers . . . He realised there was pressure diagonally across his chest, and his looked down, though it was no use. He couldn't see anything, but there was a vaguely familiar smell in the air. Something he encountered every day; something that usually passed without notice . . . A sort of _passive_ scent of a familiar interior.

He remembered what he'd said when he'd woken up: _John_. His voice was hoarse, and deeper even than it usually was. He coughed, choking slightly in the process, and squeezing his eyes shut. He could move his hands, but he couldn't get up. He rubbed his eyes, and found that he was wearing his usual leather gloves, though he couldn't remember bringing them to the pool . . .

. . . _The pool?_

Suddenly, he panicked. He clawed at the thing that was restraining him, but it was still no use. He found that there was something of a barrier beside him to his left, some kind of wall, and he hit at it.

"Hello?" He called, becoming more frantic, but trying not to show it. Clearly, he was being watched by someone. This must be a – a _joke_ . . . His default feeling was that everyone hated him, though he couldn't figure out most of the time or remember why. Thus, it wasn't that much of a stretch of the imagination that this could be an awfully dull prank.

It seemed quite serious to him, though.

But the _pool_? Before? He thought hard about it: the message on the website, it said – it said – _Found. The Bruce Partington Plans. Please collect. The pool. Midnight._

He was retracing his steps to the pool when suddenly he felt something in his pocket: a vibrating phone. He dived for it, slipping his hand into the familiar material of his coat to retrieve his BlackBerry.

_Lestrade Calling._

Lestrade? . . . _Who_ . . . ?

He considered it carefully: trapped, with one phone call. He answered, and was surprised to find that it was a video call. He was unaware of this feature on his phone – then again, he'd never had purpose to use it before.

"Sherlock?" He sounded concerned at first, but pretended he hadn't said anything, looking at someone off screen and then sounding more serious: ". . . Operative Sherlock Holmes, please acknowledge,"

The man's voice was gruff, yet concerned; coarse from years of smoking-relapses, each worse than the last, if Sherlock's instincts were correct. He was confused by who would be calling him now, and why. He also found it hard to understand what had just been said.

Then there was his appearance: coffee stained shirt collar; top of a nicotine patch shown from under a rolled up sleeve. He looked as if he'd had very little or no sleep at all, but he could see from the dark circles under his eyes and the permanent lines in his forehead that this was usually the case. His shaving was patchy at best, indicating that he lived alone, although Sherlock saw a faint groove on his left ring finger: divorced three, no, _two _years ago. Simple. The string of deductions he was making helped make Sherlock feel calmer, and more at ease, like some form of reassurance.

Something made the man's eyes seem worse than they first appeared, though. They boggled, and flicked with desperation at what Sherlock assumed was the camera at his end. He knew he couldn't be seen, because there was no camera on the front of his Blackberry. The man probably didn't know where he was, either.

"Sherlock Holmes, please acknowledge,"

But Sherlock didn't hear him; more like wasn't inclined to listen at that moment. The light the video call was giving off was enough to give him a brief insight into his surroundings: leather seats, blacked out windows on the _inside_, yellow safety bar, fold down seat opposite, panel separating front and back . . .

"A taxi cab . . . ?" Breathed Sherlock, still a little unsure he was correct. It didn't make sense!  
>He found that what restrained him was a seatbelt, but it was unconventional: though it was fastened, he found himself unable to unfasten it, almost as if the buckle were fused with the socket. He tried the door: locked, of course. Despite knowing a bit more about his surroundings, he still couldn't find a way out. Not yet, anyway.<p>

"Sherlock, acknowledge! – We have to send you back in, there's no time," The man sounded as if he were pleading with the sleuth.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but found that he didn't know what to say. _Acknowledge_? I simple 'Are you okay?' would suffice. The command sounded almost military, though he could see that the man, from the period and style of design of the room he could see behind him, was at Scotland Yard. He seemed the police type, too. A detective, maybe, but not a soldier. Sherlock knew soldiers types . . .

He could see several people hovering about his conversational partner. He heard mutterings: they could have been inside his head, they could have been on the video call, but they said _he won't do it. He's not ready. It's no use._

Sherlock cleared his throat, and responded in kind, seeing it the appropriate thing to do: "Acknowledged. I assume that's what you want me to say – do . . . Um," He felt a little embarrassed to admit he was unaware of where he was, but he decided it would be better just to ask an equally pressing question to give him time to figure that out: "Who am I speaking with now?"

The man paused, freezing with his mouth open, frowning. He turned a little in his seat, and beckoned someone over.

"Sherlock Holmes, what's my name?"  
>"I don't know you," Sherlock replied, frustrated "That's why I asked, <em>obviously<em>," He pulled at his belt again, trying not to let the man know he was trapped. He was too proud to be seen as helpless.

"Run memory recall!" A voice bleated off camera, and the man he was speaking with nodded with an incomprehensible grumble: something along the lines of "Yeah, I know, alright, doing it now . . ."

He cleared his throat, and appeared to be reading. Sherlock thought he saw the flash of a lamp post outside; thought he got blinded by it, but it passed as swiftly as it came, and he knew he'd imagined it. The cab wasn't even moving. There was no driver.

"Soo Lin, Brian and Eddie are smugglers. One of them stole the Jade Pin. The Jade Pin was given as a gift to an employee at Sebastian's bank. Her name is Amanda. Acknowledge,"

"Acknowledged," Sherlock said in a faraway voice, tracing a drop of condensation of the window with his finger, and trying to see his own reflection in it via the tiny amount of light he had. He couldn't see much: gaunt cheekbones, shock of curly black hair, unclear smears of their actual selves in the ambiguous reflection. The usual. He found he was sweating a little, so he mopped his brow.

"There were five names in that list, please list them in reverse-alphabetical order," The man asked him. Sherlock sighed, and repeated them:  
>"Soo Lin, Sebastian, Eddie, Brian and Amanda,"<p>

"What's my name?"

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, of course. Do you need me to tell you your own name now? Are you really that incompetent?" Sherlock snorted. "Why do you insist on boring me with obvious questions?"

Lestrade looked about, trying to mask a look of concern on his face, and said, "Welcome back, Operative Sherlock Holmes,"  
>Sherlock rolled his eyes, and examined the belt again, ignoring Lestrade. He felt for any weak points it might have, but it felt pretty steadfast. He'd be out of it soon enough, by his own reckoning.<p>

"More importantly, Lestrade, do you know where I am? Obviously it _pains_ me to admit I need help from _you_, it's just that I'm trapped at the moment, and-"

"Later, Sherlock. We don't have time. You can have a break later – Anderson, run the Source Code,"

"Lestrade, listen, I'm – well, I don't know, but I can't help but feel you're _enjoying_ this. My not knowing where – Source Code? - _Anderson_? What's he-"

"Sherlock, you need to find the snipers. I need a positive ID on all of them. Moriarty – well, we believe he got away, but we don't know how. Just find out the names of his associates and that'll lead us to him,"

"Moriarty? He . . . Got away? But, the bomb – he can't have! Impossible!" Sherlock spluttered, remembering harshly all at once the agony and the pain and the _death _he was sure he'd witnessed; he clutched his phone, and held it to his face as if it were the thing most dear to him in the world – though he knew for certain that the most dear thing to him in the world was in some unspecified location. "Where's John?"

"For God's sake, Sherlock, there's going to be more bombs! . . . I can't help you right now. We have no time. Find the snipers! – Running the Source Code. You have eight minutes,"

"_Where's-_"


	2. American Technology

Walking. Walking forwards. The sound of a screeching door slamming shut somewhere behind him.

Sherlock frowns, gaping, turning around. He doesn't remember even starting to walk in the first place, nor where he was walking to . . .

He witnesses a busted lock, a forced door. He's broken in, clearly. The tiles on the floor, the lockers to his side, the nearby stairs to the upstairs gallery, the scent of chlorine and cleaning chemicals . . . He was back at the pool.

He was surprised it was still standing, actually. He seemed to have been transported there somehow, if indeed, he was where he thought he was. _When_ he thought he was.

He didn't remember breaking into the pool a few seconds ago, nor walking along the corridor. He decided to enter the main pool room, to see the damage done. It was like a dream, a nightmare, a _hallucination. _Sherlock wondered if his not knowing how he got here was something to do with a relapse.

Suddenly, he gulped, shutting his mouth. He remembered the taxi cab, Lestrade, '_Run the_ _Source Code'_. . . Was this it? Was this what they were talking about, or something to do with it?

He cautiously pushed the door to the pool open, trying to keep calm and breathing slowly: in through his nose, out through his mouth, though it didn't help much with his climbing anxiety and the need to panic. He felt himself pale, as the all-too-familiar confronted his eyes.

He stepped through the threshold, keeping low and wary as he let the door shut behind him quietly. He looked up at the gallery: no sign of any snipers. Not yet, anyway. Pitch black. He supposed that the idea was that he couldn't see them, but they could him. Obvious.

He remembered that, if this indeed _was _some form of time travel, John would be here; would be in danger. He paced forward, sweating feverishly, determined not to regret what would happen this time round. Suddenly, all traces of calm were gone.

"_John_!" He yelled, looking for some sort of acknowledgement from his friend. His voice echoed around, becoming a caricature of itself, and jeering at him about his helplessness.

But then he remembered: if John did speak to acknowledge him, he'd be killed. Finally, his friend emerged from a side door, dressed in the same large coat as before to hide the bomb vest.

"This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?" Moriarty said in John's unwillingly compliant neutral voice, as the doctor blinked deliberately. Sherlock understood this time that he did this on purpose: an SOS to his friend, telling him to leave while he could. But he couldn't. He'd never leave.

"John! John, don't speak – It's me, but it's _not _me – I mean, it _is_, but what you have to understand is that I'm from the future," Sherlock told him, wanting badly to take him by the shoulders, but unable to because of the bomb. It was the first time he'd wanted to physically hold anyone before, to reassure them, and he couldn't. He cursed himself internally for not doing it sooner.

John's face crumpled into a look of disbelief and confusion, but Sherlock continued anyway: "I've come back in time, I think; I can try and stop this!" Sherlock insisted, resolute, though John's confused face fell, realising his friend was probably kidding himself that he could help at all.

Suddenly, from the behind John and the end of the pool, the door the consulting criminal had previously been hiding behind opened so slowly, relishing the big reveal, opened in a hurry. "You can speak, Johnny boy!" He said flippantly with a mocking smile, although there was a look of intrigue in his eyes that Sherlock could detect under his bravado.

"Sherlock, you really do talk nonsense. Maybe that's what happens when you start caring," He pointed out, gesturing at Sherlock's hands as they hovered at John's shoulders, but never touching him. He walked around the side of the pool, slipping his hands into his pockets, and coming closer to them.  
>"You see, Sherlock, it's because you care that you can't do what you want, and kill me now. It's because you care that you're <em>weak<em>," The Irishman told him, a mocking smile pulling at one corner of his mouth, though it seemed a humourless smile.

"You, just – be quiet!" Sherlock shouted at him, pulling the gun on him from the same pocket as before. Suddenly, he whipped around, scratching his head with the barrel of the gun. "I'm . . . I can't think . . ." Sherlock muttered

"See, _this_ is what happens, Sherlock, when you hang around with people like Doctor Watson here. You become ordinary. I'd say even... _stupid_. It rubs off on you," Moriarty told him, shrugging, hiding that he was a little offended he wasn't the most interesting or important thing in Sherlock's life as he'd hoped he was. He'd spent a lot of time and money trying to get the detective into the palm of his hand, making him his plaything, controlling him at every turn. This was an unprecedented change of tone in their previously volatile yet mutually-curious relationship.

Sherlock grimaced at the sound of someone he'd admired, in a twisted way, as his intellectual equal insulting his intelligence.

John stared at the Irishman with distain in his eyes, hating him for drawing Sherlock in as much as he already had, and for insulting and underestimating himself. He thought him pathetic and evil, as was obvious from the way he was staring at the criminal.

"I'm surprised, Sherlock, I really am. I wonder, did you even solve those puzzles of mine on your own? I'd be disappointed if you didn't – I wasted so many people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid on getting you to come out and play! . . . And you aren't even _worth it_,"

"Just, _shut up_!" Sherlock spat, whisking round to face him, frustrated. He span back, pacing again, leaving even the consulting criminal slightly baffled. John's raised eyebrows indicated how confused he was: he could tell, from the way Sherlock was pulling at clumps of his hair and ruffling it, looking anxious, that he was thinking something extremely difficult over.

Well, something more precarious or perplexing than this current situation was difficult to imagine, but it was clearly so. John knew this behaviour from the first night he and Sherlock had met: he'd indulged in the same hair-pulling when he'd been trying to work out the culprit of the murders in what he'd called _A Study in Pink. _He trusted that Sherlock wouldn't behave like this without good reason.

However to not take this situation as seriously as required and to virtually ignore it, and to lash out at he who had the means of killing them both, in favour of thinking . . _. _This was very out of character, even for someone who was intolerant of _people_ in general. He'd been so keen to meet Moriarty - even if it'd meant putting both him and John danger.

Suddenly Sherlock turned around, and Moriarty was right there in front of him, too close. He looked down at the shorter man, and saw that his crazed eyes were playful, yet dangerous. They shone with warnings, many in number, and vicious. He made the situation plain to the consulting detective.

"Listen very carefully to me, _my dear_ . . ." He poked Sherlock in the chest, though Sherlock was unsure why. Was it an attempt at flirting, or something more sinister? Was it to cause pain? He never could tell whether or not someone was flirting with him unless it was painfully obvious, as was the case, John had told him, with Molly Hooper. But _this_ . . . This was more sinister. Moriarty moved from being playful to being lethal so abruptly, so obviously, that even Sherlock knew exactly what was going on. Now, he knew, he was acting somewhere between childishly and maliciously.

However, Sherlock had a sneaking suspicion that the action was merely a boast: he was showing off how close he could get to Sherlock, how recklessly he could behave, while the sleuth was helpless, and unable to do anything about it. "Do you know what happens if you don't stop _fucking_ _about _with me like y'are now?"

Sherlock's lip curled as he looked down at Moriarty, but suddenly the criminal was snatched back, and a hand wrapped around his neck. It was John, rushing forward to protect the detective, just as he had before. Sherlock realised with a pang of regret that John would do this a million times over, and he'd just proved it . . . Guilt wracked the sleuth, as his friend hissed, "Run! Sherlock run!" He then directed his speech at Moriarty: "If a sniper shoots me, Mr. Moriarty, we both go down,"

"Oh _good_! He's sweet; I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get sentimental about their_pets_," Moriarty jibed, speaking about John rather than to him, as if he were merely a loyal dog whose company Sherlock enjoyed: dumbly following him anywhere and refusing to stop behaving heroically – as if that last part were a badthing.  
>Sherlock ignored him pointedly, and explained to John the situation in urgent tones.<p>

"John, you can't. There are snipers everywhere – not just pointed at you, but at me. They'll take _both _of us down, not just you – there's no way out," He said, though he wasn't sure. He knew how it ended, that was true; but he decided he could still help.

"Who is it? Who are you working with? – Who's holding the guns?" Sherlock asked the criminal. John's grip tightened.  
>"Whoops!" Moriarty said, not even bothering to struggle anymore, as a sly smile crossed his face, "I'm afraid you've both rather shown your hands, haven't you? . . . American technology, isn't it?"<p>

Sherlock saw that, yet again, the rash of laser sights had spread across his chest and up to his head. John let go of his captive, and his face looked hideously defeated yet again. It pained Sherlock to even _try _and look at that expression again, with the knowledge that he'd caused it.

He wished this worked differently. He wished he could go back to posting the suggestion to meet at the pool on the website – no, he wished he hadn't even been baited by Moriarty in the first place; that he'd been able to resist him.  
><em>Why couldn't he have just left it alone?<em>

Sherlock crouched down, laying his gun down on the tiled floor. He didn't seem scared to the doctor or the criminal, just intent. "Go on," He said, unperturbed by the laser sights. Moriarty's expression faltered slightly at his lack of fear.

"You _travelled back in time_," Moriarty said, making the inverted commas gesture with his hands, "Don't be so dumb, Sherlock. That's impossible . . . Technology pioneered across the pond, and brought over here of late, my sources tell me. I've been expecting this. Tricky thing, though, the Source Code – isn't it?"

"What? How did you know?" Sherlock breathed, his voice low. His hands were still at his sides, and he tried to not make any sudden movements that would distract Moriarty from saying what he knew.

"You feel like you're back in time, and you thought that maybe you could stop me . . . Obviously, they've got you wired up to that thing, but you don't know much about it yet. Well, it's bad news, Sherlock. It means we've done this before, and it ended badly. For you. There's a _very_ specific criterion for the Source Code, you see,"

"Criterion?" Sherlock said, encouraging him to go on.  
>"For the subjects? They didn't tell you? You can only enter the Source Code if-"<p>

"_SHERLOCK_!"

There was a gunshot fired, and Sherlock was too dumbfounded and distracted by Moriarty's captivating information to even move. The shot, he knew, was from John's gun: the one he'd discarded, the one he'd left in John's reach . . . John had dropped to the floor, and shot Moriarty in the head with it.

Unfortunately, even before the consulting criminal hit the floor, there was another gunshot, and then a rushing roar of an explosion and sad eyes and _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _-

"-_sorry,"_

"Steady, now – how's he doing?"  
>"Vitals erratic, but the seizure's over . . . Stabilising . . . Normal, back to normal, <em>unbelievably<em>,"  
>"Yeah, thanks for that comment – really helpful, Anderson. Now go and make sure that doesn't happen again!"<p>

Sherlock could hear voices far away arguing over vital signs, but he knew they weren't really there. It was just the phone, which he'd thrown down in a fit onto the leather seat. He felt his heart shiver and pound in his chest: getting blown up was harder every time, he observed, if this trend continued.

"Operative Sherlock Holmes, please acknowledge,"

His wide eyes looked about eagerly: the taxi cab. He was back in the cab.

"Acknowledged - What . . . What was that?" He asked in a low, hushed voice: he was scared to admit he had no idea what was going on. He was whispering to himself now: "It was like, I was back at the pool, but – I remembered being here, so I behaved differently . . . It was like I was back in time . . ." He trailed off, but then he picked up the phone, and held it to himself, clearing his throat and trying to scrape back a dignified, authoritative voice with mild success: "Was I? . . . Was I back in time?"

"Welcome back. No – you've just been in something called the Source Code,"  
>"Moriarty," Sherlock urged, suddenly recalling quicker than he did before, "– John shot him! . . . He's dead! But the bomb, the bomb-"<br>"He's not dead, Sherlock, nothing's changed. Did you find any of the snipers?" Lestrade pressed.  
>"No I didn't, Inspector, because I had no idea what I was doing. How can Moriarty be alive? He was shot in the head! . . . I think it's a bit irresponsible to send an 'Operative ', as you call it, into the field without a full briefing, don't you, Lestrade? Perhaps it would have been better if you had let me know what I'm actually a part of!" He hissed.<p>

He saw the DI sigh and his head loll on his shoulders, but after rubbing his tired eyes, he decided to explain. "You're right, of course," He sighed.  
>"Right, Sherlock, the Source Code you were part of is a computer programme - it's not a time jump, it's <em>another reality<em>. It's another version of events that we've created, identical but for _your_actions.  
>"We need you to find who the snipers are, by any means necessary, via exploring the Source Code. They'll be the same people as they were when you originally encountered the scene, but this way, you won't have to do the same as what you did before. You can go and investigate, and find them, so we can be led to Moriarty.<br>"You have eight minutes in every Source Code – it's the amount of time _your_ mind was able to remember in extreme detail, which I'm sure you'll know is much longer than anyone else's mind can remember that meticulously.  
>"But Sherlock, the thing is we have to get you back in quickly because after a while, the detail will go, and the Source Code won't be viable. Your body goes through more stress every time, too, so it puts physical strain on your body,"<p>

Sherlock had been half-listening – this was more attentive than most people's utmost concentration – but had been occupying himself with the study of the cab. There were pictures on the dashboard: children . . . Suddenly, he had a peculiar realisation.

"Sorry, but why have you trapped me in Jeff Hope's taxi cab?" Sherlock asked incredulously.  
>"Oh, is that where you are?" Lestrade said, with a mildly interested face.<br>"Of course I am!" Sherlock said, throwing his arms up  
>"Sherlock, were you listening?" Lestrade asked, sounding frustrated. "I'm not going to explain again-"<br>"Alternate reality, computer simulation, Source Code – why this cab, though? Surely there are better places to run this out of? And how exactly are you programming me into this, this 'Source Code '?"

"No time, Sherlock! You need to go back in now. Anderson, could you-"  
>"Anderson? <em>Anderson's<em> in charge of running the Source Code?" Sherlock said, somewhere between doubtful and angry. "I'm putting my life in _Anderson's _hands?"  
>"Sherlock, be reasonable! He's been given the grant to set this project up in the UK after fighting long and hard for it, so he gets to be in charge. He knows his stuff, you'll be fine. But for now, you're the only viable candidate, and so we need you to prevent further attacks by Moriarty-"<p>

"This is American technology, isn't it?" Sherlock asked quietly.  
>"How did you-?" Lestrade began, but he was interrupted.<br>"Moriarty . . . He said he'd been expecting it. I said I thought I was back in time, and he knew straight away. Said it was technology from America, and that it'd been a long time coming in the UK. That's true, isn't it?"  
>"Well yeah, but-"<br>"He also said there was a very specific criterion necessary to be part of the Source Code. What is it?"  
>"Sherlock, please-"<br>"Have _you _ever been part of it?"  
>"No, I haven't – Sherlock, we're running the Source Code now. Please, do it differently this time. Don't worry about John, he's not the real John, remember, he's just from another reality,"<br>"So I shouldn't try to save him?" Sherlock asked flatly.  
>"You can't save him, it's not real life, this has already happened-"<br>"Then where is he now?  
>"We don't have time, Sherlock! Anderson, run the Source Code, now. Eight minutes, remember. Find the snipers,"<br>"_But-_"


	3. Chlorine

It wasn't so much of a shock this time when Sherlock found himself walking without knowing why; finding the broken lock, the stairs to the gallery above to his right. It was all part of the _Source Code_, which while he didn't really know what it was, he knew he could work within it to do what Lestrade wanted. He wanted the snipers' identities? Well, he'd get them. He was sure he could at least do _something_ in eight minutes.

Instead of falling into the trap of going to the room with the pool, he instead walked past the door, to where he'd spotted something useful: a cupboard he hoped contained supplies, or else he'd have to rethink.

It was locked, so he frantically searched his pockets for his lock-pick . . . _Keys, gloves, phone, British Army Browning L9-A1 . . . Lock-pick! Straight from the ash tray that John can't reach on top of the bookshelf. _

In no time, the door was open, and a supply of the chemical he required was staring him in the face. With a smirk, he lifted up the large container of pool cleaner and opened the lid. The repugnant scent of chlorine assaulted his nostrils, and he immediately grabbed a nearby cleaning cloth, shoving it over his mouth and nose. His makeshift safety mask was better than none at all, he reasoned, slipping on his leather gloves and securing the mask to free up his hands,

He took another cloth, and doused it thoroughly in the liquid, making sure not to get any of it on his skin or his suit.

_Pool cleaner. Calcium Chloride, Chlorine gas. Can cause: chemical burns, necrosis, loss of vision, throat damage. _Sherlock had used it before in one of the experiments John had so often chided him for trying in the flat, near the food. Oh, if only John could see him now!

He grabbed the doused cloth, trying not to breath in deeply as the harsh smell of chemicals began to make his eyes water.

He skulked up the stairs to the gallery, going straight on: this way, he'd be adjacent to the length of the pool. If he'd gone left, he would be facing the changing rooms, behind which John was concealed. If he carried on forwards, past this area and turned left, he'd be at the bit where the snipers that were aimed at him before were stationed.

The rectangular gallery above the pool was covered in snipers for him to identify, several in each section. Simple enough. It was only a matter of time.

He used his shoulder to open the double doors at the top of the stairs as quietly as possible, and stood still in the dark for a few moments, surveying the situation.

There were rows of chairs on a stand, he could see from the light in the pool below. Each was higher than the next, held up by a complex frame of metal supports. The chairs didn't go all the way to the back, though, and there was room to walk behind the stand and even go underneath it. The perfect hiding spot.

Nearby: a sniper. Further along, by twenty metres or so, another. He hoped that the two he could see in position were the only two in this part of the gallery. He'd like to use Moriarty's usually unhelpful tactic of keeping this area poorly lit against his enemies.

He paced in the dark towards the closest one, heart pounding so loud that for an awful moment he suspected it of being outwardly audible. He knew it was impossible. He tried not to think before he acted, coolly, calmly, _brutally_.

_I am a desperate man_, he told himself, creating a mantra for himself to hide behind_. I am desperate. Desperation does things to the mind, the body, the soul, if indeed I have one left to corrupt. I am desperate_.

It was funny: Sherlock had never thought of himself as having a soul until now. A soul was always something he thought of other people as having, but never himself: like a Ford Mondeo or a pet tabby cat. He wondered if John had ever owned a pet tabby cat.

He shook his head. _For the first time in your life, you can't focus - what's wrong with you? Who are you?_

Right now, the only thing he knew for certain was that he'd failed at his goal of trying not to think. However, he was fairly sure if he had a soul before, he wouldn't after what happened next.

He made his move, sneaking up from behind and grabbing the sniper by the waist, clamping the hand with the chemical cloth over his mouth. He dragged the smaller man to the back, kicking and resisting the entire time but overpowered by the chemicals and by Sherlock's larger stature. In a second they were beneath the stand, Sherlock grimacing with perseverance and trying not to feel; not to hear his captive struggling and trying to breathe, or the sobs of agony, or muffled cries or begging.

It was horribly unpleasant, but he had to tell himself _this isn't real. You're not actually doing this. And if you are, it isn't for you, it's for Lestrade, it's for Anderson, it's for . . ._

But as he felt the man squirm in his grip, trying to reach up to claw at his eyes in pain from the harsh chemicals that had run into them, he realised that he was taking his anger out on the sniper. He was an enemy, yes, but it was unnecessary and unpleasant for him to prolong this.

He wasn't the disease. He was merely a symptom. Moriarty was the cancer that was the bane of his life, and he needed to cut him out _by any means necessary_, just as Lestrade had told him. All the same, he made his decision as he spotted a gun - silencer and all - in the other man's holster.

Sherlock used one free hand to put him out of his misery. One shot to the temple. _Good night Vienna _he thought, sickening even himself, as he watched the first man he'd ever killed slump lifelessly to the floor, tissue and blood disappearing at high velocity, invisible, into the darkness.

Sherlock stared dumbly at the man whose life he'd taken, his body ungraciously devoid of energy all of a sudden. Sherlock's mouth turned down at the corners, and he wished that John's gun had a silencer in the first place. Maybe then, he wouldn't have had to torture the man with the chemicals to keep him quiet and overpowered. He could have just killed him, quickly and quietly. It would have been kinder, but there was no other way.

Sherlock was sweating with the effort of holding his _victim_ still, and the cloth had dropped to the floor from a now-limp hand. He took off his gloves despondently, discarding them though he loved them because _they weren't real. This entire thing wasn't real. He wasn't a murderer . . . Was he?_

"Jonathan?"

Sherlock looked up, furtive, his eyes widening as he crouched down beside the body of the man he'd just disposed of unceremoniously. The other sniper had noticed his fellow employee had left his post.

He frantically searched the man's back pockets, finding that though he was dressed in all black, his trousers were worn at the corners of the pockets. This was from frequent use, and easily helped him to locate his wallet: the corners were in holes because the wallet was habitually kept in the same pocket, thus wearing down the material over a long period of time. Simple.

Sherlock risked the light from his phone to help read the man's driver's licence: _Jonathan Small_. The name rang a bell although it was too dark behind the stand to see his face. Sherlock quickly remembered him as a relatively small time criminal – a thief, if he wasn't much mistaken. A curious case with Indian gems sprang to mind: the man was a good thief, but rough and unintelligent. He must've been let out of prison early.

Sherlock threw the wallet down, the name memorised, and crouched under the stand, shoving his phone away into his breast pocket once more.

"Jonathan, get yourself back in position now, you know he'll go mad – remember how he dealt with Finchley . . .?" A gentile and somewhat posh voice asked. The man approaching was trying to see in the dark behind the stand, his hand running along the wall behind it to guide him. There was no way he could have seen Sherlock in the dark, using the sound of his own voice against him, taking aim based on an approximation of where he thought the man was.

_How amateurish of him to venture into the unknown without even taking his gun out_, he thought.

Sherlock squeezed the trigger, though the anticipation of doing so and the physical action itself made a strange impression on him. It reminded him of a situation an indeterminate amount of time ago when he'd taken his time, aiming at the floor, aware that he was about to take a life . . . Maybe even his own.

Suddenly, he laughed. His face creased with hysterical laughter, as he once again got out his phone, surveying the bodies on the floor with perfect illumination. He remembered the words of Sally Donovan to John, which he and his friend had later talked about:

_One day, we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there._

He wiped hysterical tears from his face, though some of them were actually from his exposure to chemicals. He rubbed his eyes, peals of laughter emanating across the chairs, bouncing off hard shiny plastic instalments. She'd been right. The stupid bitch had been _right_. Maybe she'd never know it, maybe she would. He was a murderer now, it was true. He'd murdered to save his own skin, he'd murdered for other people's needs, and he'd murdered – he knew it, now – for _John_. He'd killed for him. _If only John could see him now_. _How ashamed he would be. This is not what he would want, not at all, not in his honour . . ._

He checked the time on his phone. _Two or three minutes_. Under half the time gone.

He stooped, checking the other man's wallet, which he found also in his back pocket, rather predictably. _James Windibank_ . . . ?

This confused Sherlock, who looked up, staring into darkness for precious seconds with a frown. He distinctly remembered the case of Miss. Mary Sutherland and her father-in-law, James Windibank, to be one almost not worth his time. It had been something trivial, a case of identity, with the former being made to fall in love with the disguised version of the latter, for his personal gain. Something about money.

However, the strange thing was that he wasn't, unlike Small, a hardened criminal. In fact, when he'd detained Windibank, he'd seemed the gentle type: obsessed with money, like all international bankers, but non-combatant. He realised that the reason he had behaved so amateurishly was because he _was _an amateur. He felt himself go a shade paler.

Why would Moriarty employ him as a sniper? He'd probably have to teach him how to correctly shoot a gun first. It wouldn't be productive, unless . . . Unless Moriarty was calling in favours, employing everyone whose cases he'd worked on, whoever had a reason to bare a grudge against the consulting detective.

He'd caused this . . . It was worse than he'd suspected. He'd brought this upon himself . . .

But he had no time. He discarded the second wallet, too, and slipped out of the door he'd entered; this time, though, he went for the corridor he hadn't gone down the first time: the one that ended up at the part of the gallery that faced John. He gulped, and checked how many bullets the gun he'd stolen had left . . . He had enough.

He figured that there'd be more this side – he remembered at least seven laser sights on John's chest. One was from the gallery he'd just been in; the other six were from the gallery he was just about to enter.

Six snipers. He could get them all, if he was lucky. Or smart.

He went into the gallery with seven bullets; he emerged with one, and six names to the loss of the rest; six more murders to his name. He'd stolen to the back of the stand, deliberately making a noise to lure the snipers to the back to see what was happening. As he suspected, they had come one by one, stupidly, each suspicious over the disappearance of their predecessor. Moriarty, it seemed, hadn't exactly picked his shooters for their brains.

Sweat was dripping into his hair from his scalp, wetting it and creating an unpleasant smell, though it was nothing to rival the awful smell of chlorine pool cleaner that was stuck in his nostrils, haunting him as if the ghosts of the people he'd murdered had made it so.

_**so·ci·o·path**__/ˈsōsēōˌpaTH/__: __Noun. __A person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behaviour and a __**lack of conscience**__._

He'd never considered himself a moral man; he'd always thought that if it was never necessary, he would be able to kill, and thus identified with antisocial behaviours _and _lack of conscience. But for once, when it came to what he could and couldn't do, he'd overestimated himself. Eight murders later, he was still not a killer. He was consumed with regret and self-loathing, and racked with guilt that shook him and poisoned him, though it might have been that he'd accidentally ingested some of the pool cleaner.

He'd never been all too attached to 221b Baker Street. It was a pretty place, a prime location, spacious enough, yes, but he didn't get attached to many material things. However right now, he just wanted to go home. Maybe it was because home entailed much more than the kitchen, the sofa, the armchair, the skull . . . Home was a person, too. Someone who would be ashamed of him; someone who would probably reject him for what he did.

Maybe he'd never get to go _home_ again, even if he didn't die.

Shaking and unpleasantly fraught with adrenaline, he estimated that he had a minute and a half left to go. Or was that two minutes and a half? He could never tell. He was pretty sure he'd not counted correctly to start with. His confused brain could only tell him _there's a fleck of blood there. On your shirt? Blood. High velocity spatter. Your cheek, too. The side of your face. Blood. Everywhere._

He couldn't get to the next part of the gallery – the part that would have been facing himself, if he were in the conventional pool room situation – without going downstairs, and so he forced himself, dragging his feet and clutching the banister as he went, to descend.

"You missed one!"

Sherlock turned around, feeling sick as usual, feeling still contaminated, still poisoned, but worse: the twisting metal spike of hideous surprise stabbed into his stomach . . . Or was that a bullet?

He conceded that a bullets had been fired, but not by him. There was a dark figure, at the top of the stairs behind him; a glinting smile of sharp white teeth. He felt his feet give way, as he wordlessly fell against the wall, piling to the floor, hunched against the wall part way down the stairs. There was a warm sensation to combat the cold of the murderous poison – but whether the poison was physically or mentally administered, from the chemicals or from the guilt . . . He could no longer differentiate; he couldn't tell.

"You didn't think I wouldn't notice, did you?" The Irish voice gloated, and Sherlock's mind managed to tell him it was definitely Moriarty. "Seven of my snipers, gone? And you, scuffling about?" He shook his head, slowly approaching from the top of the stairs. Sherlock wanted to run: he couldn't face the confrontation, and he doubted he could speak or answer back without vomiting.

"I saw you come up here on the security camera. Obviously, I had to come and have a look!" He carried his monologue on in a tone of mock offence, as he said, "You turned up, and you didn't bother to say hi? After I went to the trouble of accepting your invite? That was _very_ rude of you. Tut tut, Sherlock . . . Although I did like what you did with the pool cleaner – I saw the cloth, dear! I was _very _proud of that . . . Very merciless . . ."

He heard the footsteps down the stairs get closer, and suddenly the Irishman was crouched beside him, looking at him at eye level. His Cheshire-cat's smile was maniacal, to say the least, and yet Sherlock found that again, he couldn't differentiate between desire and hate in the other man's expression.

"Seems there's nothing between us now, isn't there?"

Sherlock didn't know if he meant spatially, or in terms of methods and psyche . . . He squeezed his eyes shut, ashamed that a tear escaped, though it wasn't because he was sad, although he was definitely upset. It was because his stomach was tearing at him, ripping at him, forcing him to pay attention to it; because his eyes were still watering from the harsh, undiluted chemicals he wished he'd never touched. He remembered, he'd never finished the experiment with the pool cleaner at the flat. John had thrown it out before it had reached its completion. John always knew the right thing to do, even if he didn't know it . . .

"Aww, Sherlock! Don't cry now! It's so much _fun_! I'm starting to think we could work together, eventually. Of course, there _was_ the problem of your little _pet_ . . . but I think it's safe to say he won't be bothering us any longer. Not after what I did . . . I was _very_ naughty. . ."

The consulting criminal reached out and took Sherlock's chin in his cold fingers for a second, looking it up and down possessively, as you might a fine prize . . . Or something nice to eat.

All Sherlock could do was look elsewhere. It might have been more pleasant to focus on how uncomfortable he was sitting on these stairs, or how much his bullet wound hurt, than to look into those evil, malicious eyes.

"Not as bad as you though, with that pool cleaner. Really I have to try that one some time!"

Despite himself, Sherlock looked up defiantly at his enemy, still shaking but able to summon some of his bravado to maintain a part-dignified facial expression. It was almost impossible, but even in another reality like this, he wouldn't go out grovelling or begging. Moriarty wouldn't get his own way. Not this time.

With a single gunshot from a lethargic pale hand, it was . . . It was . . . _Not long now . . ._


	4. Case Files Past

**_AN: Sorry for the massive delay between updates! Both me and my beta have been very busy, and I've gotten my own channel between now and then, so all my updates will be on here from now on. Anyway, enjoy! More updates soon. - B. _**

* * *

><p>"Anderson, what the fuck just happened?"<br>"Well I don't know that! You can't expect me to know everything-"  
>"No, just for you to do <em>your bloody job<em>!"

Clattering noises came from far away, muffled, strained, difficult to perceive to those who weren't looking for them in the first place … Panting. Panting, and shaking. Headache . . . Subsiding.

Sherlock opened his eyes gradually, afraid of any bright lights that might assault his still-tender vision. He put a gloved hand to his temple carefully, fingering the spot where the bullet had pierced his ivory skin. He was almost surprised to feel it unbroken, but then again it always felt so _real_ …

He found that he was gently sobbing; he dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and gritted his teeth, trying to black out images of murdered bodies, of consulting criminals, of fucking _pool cleaner_ … Even now he could still smell it. It stung as if it were right beneath his nose. But he was crying because of the emotional trauma, not the perceived physical pain.

"Get on the damn computer, _now_! Sort this shit out!"

They weren't talking to him . . . Sherlock knew, however, that they were talking _about_ him. Anderson and Lestrade, arguing. Lestrade complaining about technical issues. Well, despite winning the bid for control of the Source Code technology Sherlock was under the influence of, Anderson was still pretty poor at using it. No surprises there. However, Sherlock barely noticed the quarrel. It was a thousand feet below him, a thousand miles away. It bore no significance to him at that moment.

Sobs shook Sherlock with gentle persistence, from the bottom of his lungs, stirring his atrophied heart into feeling again. He was shaking, crying with sadness and remorse. He'd forgotten why he was crying, as if he'd awoken from a nightmare, but gradually he remembered.

His mind had just computed what had just happened: he'd remembered . . . He'd remembered what he'd _done._

"Operative Sherlock Holmes, please acknowledge . . . Are you … Are you -_crying_?" Lestrade asked, attentive, obviously trying to hear the muffled sounds of Sherlock's tears through the phone line. Sherlock tried to scoop up the phone from where it had fallen to his feet during the latest seizure, but had difficulty, as the seatbelt held him in the place. Instinctively, though he hadn't been able to release himself before, he reached for the belt buckle: he found that this time, he could unfasten it.

He leaned forward, free at last, and picked up the phone. He was sniffing, and wiping away his tears with the hand without the phone, as he replied.

"Ack – Acknowledged … And no, no, I'm not, I'm-" He said, trying to sound forceful, though he ended up sounding like a defiant child. "Lestrade I-" His voice broke, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He slumped back onto the cab seat, leaning on one door and facing the other. His tired long legs stretched across the seats, and he pulled his coat closer around him. He took a calming breath, and frowned, not opening his eyes as he eventually managed to ask the question he needed to know the answer to.

"Tell me that wasn't . . . _Real_," He commanded, though it came out almost as a plea. With tear-blurred vision, he opened his eyes to have a look to see what the DI would say, what he'd do. Angry at himself for crying for the first time in around twenty years, he wiped away tears once again.

"I told you already, it's another reality. Look, are you-"  
>"Wait – another reality? So what, just because it happened in another reality makes it <em>okay<em>?"  
>"We'll never see that reality again, Sherlock, you can't. Did you get the snipers' names?"<br>"Eight of them. So, technically . . . That was _real_? I actually _did _what I did in there, but in another reality? Is that what you're saying?" Sherlock clarified persistently, his voice trying to conceal the inner tumult he felt as he tried to remove all traces of tears and compose himself.  
>"Yes, Sherlock, you <em>actually<em> did it, _technically_ . . ."  
>There was a second's pause before Lestrade continued in a way that reflected Sherlock's own cold, dismissive ways with the victims of crime. It wasn't intentional on the DI's part, as he couldn't really tell that Sherlock was properly upset, but it made Sherlock cringe that he'd ever been so blind as to say something like what came next to a distraught victim: "Never mind that though! That's great news! There's only ten in total from our estimations. This means you could only have to go in one more time," Lestrade said, sounding virtually merry compared to his usual miserable tone. His face had lit up, which was a massive contrast to Sherlock's sickly, regretful face.<p>

So there was a reality in which he had murdered eight people, and then killed himself. There was a reality where Moriarty had done _fuck knows what _to John; there was a reality where he'd tortured a man with Chlorine chemicals . . . There was a reality where the scraps of soul he'd retained had been blown to pieces and buried without graves.

Suddenly, over his sick feeling, he managed to restore his calm, cool persona. He wouldn't let this stop him from catching whoever had gotten to him, and to John. He wanted Moriarty dead, and he wanted to get this over with. He wanted peace. He would have to deal with what he'd done eventually, but now was not the time. He buried it, finding that stoicism was much harder than John made it look.

For now . . . He had woken up crying, the fallout from a fast-fading chimera. Now it was the cold dark of day, and he knew he'd have to relive the nightmare again. It was with grim perseverance that he came to terms with this fact.

He stretched his legs, beginning to use them for the first time in . . . Well, he didn't have a time frame, frustratingly. But they felt hideously disused. Derelict.

He twisted in is seat, grabbing the front seat with his left hand and foraging for a hold in the darkness with his other one. The phone he'd dropped to the seat wasn't helping much with the lighting. He reached to where he knew, from his extensive use of London cabs, the small light on the roof would be. He flicked the switch.

"Look at his stats! His heart's gonna blow up! – you having trouble there, sir?"  
>"Not now, Sally!"<p>

Oh, _fantastic_. Donovan was there now.

"I'm fine, Donovan. Run along now," He snapped though it was strained, as he leaned over, squeezing his long arm through the panel between the front and the back of the cab. There was a hard Perspex screen between them as always, with only a square about 15x20cm for him to reach through.

For some reason, the mention of her name made him shiver. The phrase _psychopaths get bored_ echoed through his head, as if on repeat, staining his conscious mind until he couldn't help but utter it out loud. He disregarded it.

"Did he just speak? What did he say? - Can he . . . Can he hear us?" Her monotone asked with a hint of actual emotion in it, though Sherlock wasn't looking at his phone to see her gormless face on the other side of the connection.  
>"We've got him on the phone," Lestrade began to explain.<br>"What? How have you got _Sherlock _on the phone?" She gasped.  
>"We just – look, just make yourself scarce, would you? You're probably putting him off – Sherlock, can you tell us the names, please – And while we're at it, what the hell are you doing? Your vitals are all over the place! We're gonna need you to acknowledge again," Lestrade commanded impatiently.<p>

He was, in fact, trying to reach the glove box through the small window in the Perspex: however, when he succeeded, there was nothing in there. Nothing but a gun, _the gun_ or more accurately, the novel cigarette lighter in the shape of a gun.

In other words the cab was full of items that he knew to have been packed away as evidence some time ago as part of the case John had entitled '_A Study In Pink_'. All of these things were evidence, including the cab itself. They were things that he couldn't possibly be allowed to touch, let alone work from within.

Sherlock stared at his surroundings, at the photo of Jeff Hope's children, at the coins and effects in the space between the driver and passenger seat. Just like he remembered. In fact, _exactly_ like he remembered.

This also called into question: how _was _he working from within here? There were no wires, or computers. There was no way they could just put him into this, this _programme_, with no appropriate equipment to be seen in his immediate proximity.

The only explanations were these: the first, the entire cab was wired for this specific use. However, it was doubtful that they'd choose police evidence to run cutting-edge technology from within. It was _exactly_ the same car as he remembered, after all.

Thus, unfortunately . . . It was the other option.

He looked at the picture of the children once more, but this time with regret, and shivered.  
>However, despite himself, his face twisted into a sad smile. His eyes glazed over, as he froze in the dark, looking at the photograph. He knew exactly what was going on now. It had taken, in his opinion, a shockingly large amount of time for him to realise, but he'd got there in the end. He doubted they knew he was aware of his own situation, but he wasn't about to let on. Not when they were <em>so close <em>to their goal.

With a sad, weary sigh, he slumped back onto the cab seat, and swung his tired legs onto the opposite seat, leaning against the car door as he stretched them across the width of the cab once more. He folded his hands in his lap, and pushed his own worries and problems to the back of his mind. It was all about the work now. It always had been, underneath. Fitting.

"Acknowledged –I'm not here. I'm imagining this place, aren't I? I'm asleep somewhere, and this is you communicating with my dormant mind. Correct?"

"I don't think you should-"  
>"Just shut up and do your job, Anderson – why'd you say that, Sherlock? What happened? That seizure – you just gave me a bloody heart attack!"<p>

"Oh, yeah, sorry, I'll try not to have a seizure because of _your _computer programme again, how selfish of me," Sherlock said sarcastically, irritated. "The belt buckle, it was fused to the fastening before, I couldn't get up. Now I'm up and about, I can move about. The doors are still locked, but . . . I can move about in here. Something changed. That doesn't happen in real life obviously, Inspector. I know where I really am – at least, I'm definitely not _here_,"

Lestrade sighed, clasping his worn face in his hands. Eventually, he looked straight into the camera, and told him, "You're nearby. You're in the basement; you're hooked up to the computer running the Source Code. No, Sherlock, you're not actually _there_, but you sort of _are_ . . ."

. . . "Sherlock . . . Are you okay?"

He realised he'd been sitting in silence for about a minute, maybe more. Lestrade had stopped talking a while ago, at least. They couldn't see him; they might have thought he had fallen asleep or something, though he didn't know if they were monitoring his brain waves as well as his vital signs, in the basement.

The truth was, _he'd known from the beginning_, and he'd only just realised.

"I need you to do something for me," He said, snatching up his phone once more.  
>"There's no t-"<br>"Yes, I know, no time. But I'm not exactly inclined to give you the names of the snipers until I get my request,"  
>"Sherlock!" Lestrade said in an angry warning tone.<br>"It's a simple request . . . Call Mycroft,"

Lestrade paused, a confused expression on his face for a multitude of reasons.  
>"But you hate the guy!"<br>"I assume he sanctioned this. He certainly knows what's happening. I doubt he's far away. Fetch him for me,"  
>"But why?"<br>"I need to speak to him. There's something we need to discuss,"

Lestrade threw his hands in the air: he obviously saw that this was non-negotiable.

"Thanks a lot, Inspector. So, I assume you want the names now?"  
>"No, no, take your time! It's not like we have to run the bloody Source Code soon or else it'll stop working!"<br>"Now now, temper. Right, here's the information I have on them . . ."

Sherlock rattled off the names and the criminal cases for each: they had all disobeyed the law in some way, it seemed, which made it easier for him to recognise them.

"Jonathan Small, thief, small-time. John wrote up his case on the blog, called it 'The Sign of Four'. Something to do with Indian gems.  
>"Second, James Windibank, amateur. I'm unsure of why he'd be there, but I'm positive it was him. His was a somewhat trivial case of identity. An older man; a banker. Didn't do anything prison-worthy, but I suppose he had some significant debts to be paid off, so he probably owed Moriarty a lot of money.<br>"John Clay, and his friend an accomplice, a man named 'Archie' - surname unclear. I heard Clay as well as law-enforcement officers refer to him by that name both in the Source Code and on the case.  
>"It was an interesting one – an elaborate plot to do with red-haired people. Singular. Both small-time criminals, though they're common offenders. I assume they jumped at the chance to work for Moriarty, especially after they'd been in prison and were virtually unemployable due to their criminal records and brutish attitudes.<br>"The fifth was a woman named Rachel Howells. She was never caught by the police after the Musgrave case a while back, when I first began my work as a consulting detective. She murdered her former lover, and was thought to be insane by everyone who knew her. She's Welsh, which could help you locate her if she's gone AWOL. She might – well, she was, um . . . Vicious. She didn't seem to want to obey orders much; a loose cannon, even by criminal underclass standards.  
>"The other three were prisoners, escaped after a police transport van crashed in a secluded spot a few years ago. They were offered refuge and employment by Moriarty, I presume. Their names are Jack Prendergast, and two other men by the names of Evans and Armitage, although I believe they have fake names now. I don't know their first names – not all of them had ID or referred to each other in full . . . Is that enough to go on?"<p>

"Um . . . Yes, Sherlock. That's _plenty_," Lestrade said, looking over at Donovan, who was scribbling at an alarming rate, tongue poking out of the side of her mouth with idiotic-looking concentration. "How did you get this information? How did you not get _shot_?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, fidgeting quietly. "You told me, _by any means necessary - _I'm not proud of what I did . . . "

"Oh . . . I see," Lestrade said quietly. There was a beat of silence, before the DI suddenly asked another question: "Wait, Sherlock, are you saying you worked on _all _of these cases?" Lestrade asked, floundering in disbelief. "These people sound like the ghosts of bloody case files past to me!  
>"Well, most of them. I was consulted on nearly all of them, and the rest of them I ended up making eventual contact with the culprits after a long period of time,"<br>"Sherlock, you do realise-"  
>"-Probably,"<br>"Sherlock! What if it was all for you? I tried to warn you, I said before, the bomber was trying to play a game with you! I was fucking _right_ as well!"

Sherlock said nothing, remaining silent and impassive, waiting for the extremely angry Lestrade to make the connections.

"We didn't know about this meeting at the pool . . . You only went and _set it up_, didn't you?"  
>"I-"<br>"Are you fucking mad? You went and-"  
>"I went and tried to prevent a public menace from harming anyone ever again,"<br>"You went and met up with a bomber. I thought you were supposed to be smart!"  
>"It would have been okay!" Sherlock shouted angrily.<br>"No, it wouldn't!"  
>"Yes it would! It would have been fine if he hadn't-!" Sherlock caught himself.<br>"Hadn't what?"

Sherlock gulped, squeezing his eyes shut and holding his head with his free hand. He looked like he was suffering from a killer headache, but no: headaches he'd had. Heartaches he couldn't associate with – usually.

"If he hadn't taken John," Sherlock mumbled quietly.

He saw Lestrade go a little paler, his eyes reddening. He looked down, and to the side, wondering what to say when the inevitable question from the consulting detective came in hushed tones:

"What happened to John?"  
>Lestrade sighed heavily, but conceded that Sherlock had a right to know.<p>

"John . . . Survived the blast . . . _Kind of_,"  
>"How bad?" Asked Sherlock dismissively, though his insides twisted with guilt and longing to see his friend.<br>"Very," Lestrade replied ambiguously.  
>"I can take it," Sherlock told him. He didn't know if he'd lied to the DI.<br>"He's in a vegetative state, Sherlock. His heart wasn't beating for a very long time, and he'd jumped into the pool at the same time as the blast. The paramedics dragged both of you out of there – it looked like he'd taken you with him in an effort to, um . . . Anyway, he had significant injuries, and he nearly drowned, too. So . . ." He trailed off. Sherlock gave in, and let the silent tears trail down his face.

_John was in a coma, possibly forever._

"Look, I'm really sorry," Lestrade floundered, "I know you two were close, you worked together-"  
>"We lived together. He was my only friend. Apology accepted. Now, I have another question," Sherlock continued all too abruptly, trying to gloss over the devastating blow he'd just suffered; trying to front it out, and trying not to let his voice waver or break: "For you this time, Anderson. How can it be <em>my <em>memory if I can find out who the snipers are? I didn't see them first time round. So they weren't part of my memory, how can they possibly be in this programme, with the right identities?"

"They were there the first time round, and so they'll be in the Source Code – you wouldn't understand-" - Sherlock merely snorted at that - "It doesn't concern you, anyway! Just focus on getting the last two, would you?" Anderson snapped from somewhere off shot.  
>"Oh, good. He doesn't know, does he? Fantastic . . ." Sherlock grumbled. "Now, can I please get this over with?"<p>

Lestrade glanced over to where Sherlock presumed Anderson was standing, waiting impatiently. He reluctantly said, "Are you sure you're-"  
>"How long before the Source Code isn't viable? Not long, is it?"<p>

Lestrade gave a heavy sigh, but gave in.  
>"Right you are, Sherlock. Remember, those last two snipers are all you want. Also, what happened last time? You were in there for nine minutes, not eight – did the bomb not go off? You shouldn't really be able to stay in for that long-"<br>"I shot myself,"  
>"You worked out that's how you exit the Source Code?"<br>"Irrelevant. Shall we begin?"  
>"Standing by – Anderson, run the Source Code. Good luck Sherlock,"<br>"I don't believe in-"

* * *

><p>Luck. Sheer, dumb luck. That's what he'd have to rely on if he wanted to succeed this time round. He'd just have to be quicker on the draw than they were.<p>

This time around, he didn't bother with the chemicals. It had too much of an adverse reaction with him, and it wasn't conducive to working fast to get only two snipers, rather than eight.

Sherlock sprinted past the supply cupboard and down the corridor, locating the stairs he'd need if he wanted to get to the last part of the gallery he hadn't been to: the one containing the two snipers he hadn't gained the identities of yet.

Composing himself, he took hold of the banister, and climbed the stairs slowly. With his right hand, he took out John's gun, and turned off the safety. The overloud click he was confronted with made him cringe as it echoed in the dark of the stairwell.

Cautiously, he pushed the door open, and took one step inside. He shut it extremely quietly behind him, turning to survey the situation. Oddly, he couldn't see any snipers stationed here at all. True, the equipment was all set up, but the guns stood vacant, their owners nowhere to be-

"Drop it,"

. . . _Found._ Oh, elegant. A well-laid plan, enforced immaculately. Perfect.

A gun pointed at his head from the darkness to his right gave weight to the command, and he crouched to obey it, placing John's gun down by his side.

They'd prepared for the possibility that he'd come this way.  
>He'd been ambushed.<p> 


	5. Tabby Cat

**_AN: Here's yet another chapter for you - there will be seven in total, if you're interested in how long it'll be. Let me know if you enjoyed it - read and review! Cheers - B. _**

* * *

><p>"Hands where I can see them,"<p>

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and positioned his hands reluctantly in the air. The voice of the man with the gun was Irish, definitely, though it was a subtle accent, as if he'd been overseas from his homeland for a long time.

"Yeah, that's it. Boot's on the other foot now, ain't it, Mr. Holmes?" Called a second voice from the shadows a little way away. This second voice was gruff: south London by the sounds of it. Familiar, too. Another one of his old 'friends'.

They'd knew he'd be there; they'd known he was coming. They'd stood by the door in wait, expecting him to come this way, and when he did, they were ready.  
>Hook, line, and sinker … Well, almost.<p>

"How?" Sherlock asked in a low voice.  
>"What, you saying you don't know?" The second voice jeered at him from the darkness. "Moran, he says he don't know!"<p>

The owner of the second voice stepped forward from the darkness, brandishing an obscenely large firearm, a mocking grin plastered over his face. Sherlock recognised him right away.

"Ah, Mr. Bewick. How surprising to see you. You should know by now that it's _doesn't_, not 'don't',"  
>"Shut the fuck up!"<br>"I thought you were in line for execution for murder in Belarus. Did Moriarty fix it for you to be let off? It seems he has a habit of such things. Bad habit,"

Bewick made his way up to Sherlock, threatening eyes having no effect on the consulting detective. Sherlock fronted it out, looking mildly amused instead of scared this time round. If he was going to do this, he was going to do it _his _way.

"After you left, he came. He sorted the whole mess out. I got away with it. You abandoned me, Mr. Holmes. If it hadn't been for Moriarty, I'd be hung,"  
>"Hanged," Sherlock corrected in a bored voice.<br>"Do you think this is a fucking game?" Bewick spat, raising his gun an inch or two away from Sherlock's forehead. The detective didn't so much as flinch.

"Bewick," Growled the Irishman, making the other gunman jump. "Remember what the boss wants. Holmes, for himself," He warned. Bewick looked suitably threatened and put out, but summoned his bravado.  
>"Yeah? Well we can lie, can't we?" He said, pressing the barrel right up to Sherlock's forehead, making an impression on his skin. "It'd be so easy, Seb – so <em>easy<em>!"  
>"I think you're forgetting who my allegiances lie with," The man Sherlock took to be Moran hissed, "And who exactly it is you're working for. He gave you everything. He can take it all back in a heartbeat,"<p>

Bewick paused, looking Sherlock straight in the eye.  
>"Run along, then," Sherlock whispered with a fake smile designed specifically to wind Bewick up.<p>

The latter backed away, spitting on the floor where Sherlock stood.

"Oh, the criminal underclass," said Sherlock with a mock sigh of disappointment, "No manners these days, eh?" He turned to face the man with the gun, who still hadn't revealed himself from the impenetrable shadow he was stood in. He said nothing in reply: a man of few words.

Suddenly, Moran's radio crackled: "Yoo-hoo! Colonel! I presume he's with you? He didn't turn up here. Ah well! Never mind. The show must go on! . . ."

Suddenly, a gunshot rang out across the pool room, and Sherlock looked down from the balcony to the glowing tiled arena below. What he saw made caused him to disregard his situation and run towards the balcony's edge.

"_John!_"

From this vantage point, he could see the body of the former army doctor sprawled on the white tiles, leaking blood from a wound in his abdomen. He saw the consulting criminal walk into view, and shoot his flatmate again: a second abdomen shot, purposefully designed to prolong John's suffering and force him to bleed out, all while still conscious.

Moriarty didn't like to get his hands dirty, but Sherlock supposed that if the chance arose to torture another human being, he wouldn't pass it up.

Sherlock bolted for the door, but Bewick caught him, twisting his arm behind his back to the point where it nearly broke. Sherlock groaned, his eyes watering for more than one reason. It seemed that it was never a single factor that pushed him over the edge when it came to tears, but many hugely upsetting ones.

"No, no! Let him come! I want to watch from the comfort of my own van out back. Cheerio, darling!" Sherlock saw Moriarty wave at him from the room below, and blow him a kiss. He threw his gun over his shoulder and into the pool, as he casually sauntered out of the room, hands in pockets, leaving John curling into the foetal position and staining the floor. Blood trickled across ceramic tiles, and into the pool, discolouring the water like red ink.

Bewick eventually let Sherlock go, and he ran faster than he'd ever done before. He had a better motive than he'd ever had before, of course. He jumped down stairs five at a time, panting, urgent; his want to be at John's side had become a mental, a bodily, a physical _need_.

He burst into the pool room, sprinting over to John and throwing himself to the floor, disregarding the pool of blood to kneel by his side.

"Sherlock?" His friend asked, squinting as the harsh light blared on the roof above Sherlock's head.  
>"Shh, John – I have to stop the bleeding-" He said, removing his suit jacket, and holding it against John's wounds to put pressure on them. "Make sure you breathe deeply, now, just-"<br>John grabbed his hand, more forcefully than Sherlock imagined a dying man could ever manage. They made eye contact for the first time.  
>"Sherlock, just . . . Stop,"<br>"I can't! John, there's a chance, I could save you this time!"  
>"This time? When have you ever … Failed – before? I've survived until now, haven't I?"<p>

John coughed, blood in tiny droplets spraying over his knitted jumper.

"You have no idea," Sherlock told him with a bitter smile. He held his flatmate's head up, and sighed, though he was internally hugely distressed. "I don't really know what to . . ."  
>"Just say what you're thinking," John advised him with a tight-lipped smile.<br>"Not enough time," Sherlock replied truthfully.  
>"Thought not," John replied, looking as though he might chuckle, but stopping short with a quick wince.<br>"I've got a million things to say, but all I can think is …"  
>". . . Yeah?" John encouraged, though his voice was strained.<p>

Sherlock sighed. He wondered if John would understand. He wondered if it mattered … He quickly concluded that yes, relative to what he considered worthy of worrying over, whether John understood him mattered a lot.

_A soul was always something he thought of other people as having, but never himself … Like a pet tabby cat . . .  
><em>"John, have you ever had a tabby cat?"  
>". . . Is that a euphemism?" Rasped John doubtfully, trying to downplay his pain of course.<br>"I was thinking, after _all this_ … One day, maybe we could ask Mrs. Hudson – we could get one – would you like that?"  
>"Sherlock, I love you to bits and everything, but sometimes I <em>really<em> don't understand you …" He told the detective, forehead creasing up as he summarised their relationship totally.

Sherlock frowned, as John's hand reached up and touched his hair gently. John didn't understand him . . . But that was okay, because he _loved him to bits_. He didn't realise the frown had turned to a smile until John said, "Was it something I said?"

Sherlock looked around, at the ever-increasing pool of blood around him, and felt the warm liquid seep further up his trousers. He was shaking – or was it John that was shaking? It could have been either of them, but it was probably both: with the adrenaline, the fear, the unlikely laughter, or the cold.

"Not long now, eh?" John asked, brushing his left hand at his wound and flinching.  
>"You don't have to pretend, John. Now is not the time for stoicism, no matter how good you are at it,"<p>

John shut his eyes, but his strained smile remained.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock told him from the heart, hand still supporting his head; fingers still entrenched in dirty blonde hair.  
>"Probably not the . . . Best idea you've ever had …" John countered, not opening his squeezed-shut eyes. He looked as if he were stuck in a perpetual wince.<br>"You're right. My best idea was having _you_ as a flatmate,"  
>"Sherlock, you're soft . . . I would've never . . . Never, guessed …"<br>"I was hoping you'd find out for yourself one day,"

John opened his eyes one last time, squinting at the silhouette he could see of the consulting detective's face.  
>"At least, we got to say … Goodbye … Better than a bomb – he was going to-" "I know he was. And you're right, I never got to say goodbye before. The bomb always ruined it,"<br>"What do you …" John began to ask, before giving up, and simply saying, "You're fucking impossible," with a half-smile.  
>"I'm sorry,"<br>"Don't be," John said, clutching at Sherlock's hair tightly and insistently, as if his final words were the most important knowledge he was to ever impart: "Don't ever be sorry . . . "

His hand slipped away and so did his life: those fingers fell as if they were falling down a cliff, into a chasm, never to clasp Sherlock's hair again in the same loving way. The look of adoration too had turned glassy and glazed-over; suddenly disingenuous, and stale.

Sherlock literally held John as he exhaled for the final time. He died in the detective's arms.

Sherlock shut his eyes for the briefest of moments. He didn't shed a tear, but found that he had to breathe through the gut-wrenching emotional trauma. He didn't shout, or panic. He just laid his friend's head down on the floor, and closed his glassy brown eyes.  
>He whispered his last goodbye.<p>

His blood-soaked trousers weighed him down as he stood up, but he was as far from caring as he could have possibly been.

"I suppose you thought that would break me, Jim," He called out, turning around, twisting in slow circles and looking up at the gallery. He spat as he spoke, and his voice was a low yell.  
>A bitter smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, "I suppose you wanted to see me <em>cry<em>,"

Hollow laughter echoed out across the tiles and the rippling, minute, cerulean waves of the pool. The smell of chlorine brought back to him the sense of disgust he felt at committing acts of physical violence, and those who perpetrated it without a care in the world. Stoicism was fast becoming his most exploited skill, and the most important one in his repertoire in the future.

"On the contrary!" He threw his arms into the air, and froze dramatically, "You gave me the thing I wanted most. I never got to say goodbye before, and thanks to you, at least in one reality, I did. I win, Jim. Even if I die, I win. Because I get to die alongside him,"

Sherlock listened to the rippling pool waters, echoing through the otherwise silent building. The smile faded from his lips.

"So what are you waiting for?" He growled, lowering his arms, and staring earnestly into the darkness.

The shot came, as always it did. It was even from the same man as it had been in the first instance.

Sebastian Moran, the best sniper the criminal underworld had to offer, dealt Sherlock the killing blow, just like he always did.

"Operative Sherlock Holmes, please acknowledge,"

He'd woken up calmly this time. No seizure, no panting, no shortness of breath. No fear or groping in the dark, or restraints. There was nothing to hinder his recall. It was perfect.

"Acknowledged . . ."  
>"Sherlock, there was no – I mean, you're fine! No fits this time … You <em>are<em> fine, aren't you?"

Sherlock's face was stony blank, but the hand holding his phone contrastingly limp and weak. He decided it was time to let them know of his awareness.

"No, of course I'm not alright. I'm dead,"

There was silence, as Sherlock watched Lestrade's gaping mouth; watched him freeze; watched him wonder what to say.

"What a load of rubbish. Sherlock, how can you be dead? You're talking to us right now," Dismissed Anderson, sloping into the camera's field of vision suddenly to make a pathetic attempt to win Sherlock round.

"I'm surprised you didn't notice, Anderson. You were probably wiring up my corpse to your machines earlier. Really, for someone who works in Homicide, you really _should_ know the main characteristics of a dead body,"

"But how did you-"  
>"Come on, Lestrade. A child would be able to work it out. First, the pool explosion. In the second Source Code you ran, I shot someone. The physical action of pulling a trigger unlocked memories within my brain that I was unable to access before, all of a sudden. I didn't know how long ago, but I knew I'd shot the bomb. There was no way that, at that proximity, I could have survived the blast. Meretricious.<br>"Then there were the surroundings. Jeff Hope's cab – a symbol of familiarity, and yet a symbol of danger. Obviously I am used to London cabs, and so would be, from memory, able to synthesize one for my surroundings from my subconscious; at the same time, my subconscious was warning me that this situation could end in death, as the situation with Hope could have, if John hadn't shot him. This place is just one big projection of my subconscious: somewhere it's conjured up for me, to give me somewhere to inhabit. Simple.  
>"And then there's you,"<p>

"What about us?"  
>"Isn't it obvious?"<br>"No!"  
>"Oh, come on! It's <em>me<em>!"  
>"I thought you say it was us . . . ?"<br>"Oh, don't be such simpletons! I'm dead, and I'm smarter than you two are! … Really _think_. Would you be going to such trouble to find Moriarty right now if he hadn't completely obliterated your only means of getting to him in the first place – namely, me?"

They both paused, looking at each other. Sherlock tipped his chin up, straightening his back. He looked up at the grey ceiling, and spoke into the phone once more.

"When I first came to, you looked angry, and more upset than usual. You even sounded happy at the sound of my voice. You were angry because the best detective you never had had been killed, severing your link to Moriarty, a well-known bomber that you're under pressure to catch … You were upset because you knew me personally, and you were upset at my passing," Sherlock deduced, talking so calmly about his own death. It was as if he were reciting one of his cases; he was busy working on the case of his own murder.

There was a silence again. Anderson raised his eyebrows, trying to behave nonchalantly, but Sherlock perceived the spark of sadness behind his eyes; the curling of his bottom lip; the concerned twitch of his brow. Anderson was genuinely sad that he was dead, but was trying to hide it.

"Nice try, Anderson, but I know you're upset really. As for you, Lestrade – I have your last two snipers' names. Have you found Mycroft?"

Lestrade turned around, possibly trying to conceal how profoundly upset he was by the entire situation. He had thought he'd be able to handle what was basically wiring up the corpse of his colleague to use to fight crime – he'd told himself he wouldn't get emotionally invested – he'd found that it was impossible for him not to be upset, especially when he saw Mycroft Holmes, a senior government advisor and an all-round scarily powerful man, standing in the doorway with red-raw eyes.

"He's in the room, isn't he?" Sherlock asked. He sniffed, and composed himself. "Come to the camera, Mycroft. It's time for you to be on the other end of your surveillance,"

Sherlock shifted, swinging his legs around so he was one again sitting upright on the taxi cab, the way he'd woken up originally. He took his spare hand out of his coat pocket, and held his Blackberry with both hands, as his brother came into the camera's field of vision. He clutched the device, and tried to quell any emotion for a few moments before speaking to him.

He'd been crying; it was obvious. He'd known, presumably, since the pool that Sherlock was dead. He'd known before Sherlock had: it was always a trend in their lives, though Sherlock would never admit it. Mycroft had a talent for being one step ahead, even if it was concerning the last and the most devastating thing that Sherlock would ever experience. Maybe this was out of kilter, but it didn't matter anymore.

"Good evening," Sherlock said cordially. He saw Mycroft smirk, and check his watch.  
>"I think we can say morning now, little brother," He said with one of his condescending smiles. Sherlock didn't feel so annoyed by it anymore.<br>"I suppose so," Sherlock said, though he couldn't have confirmed that Mycroft was right. He couldn't tell what time it was: only that it was dark outside the cab, though it could have just been the blacked-out windows.

What to say! What to say to the brother that had constantly annoyed and humiliated you at every occasion since you were in your early teens . . . There was nothing that could be said, really.

"Did you give permission for, for-"  
>"I let them use you, yes. But you always did say you were married to your work. I supposed it would be kinder to let you go out doing what you did best,"<br>"Logical … I see no flaws there, although in practise the theory falls down a bit. I never banked on having to, to – well, to do some of the things I've had to do in the programme,"  
>"But you don't mind, do you?"<p>

Was he regretful that he'd been a part of this? Well, on the one hand, it had been painful at times –the pain in there was probably virtual, but it still hurt – probably some bright idea of Anderson's; to wire up, as completely as he could, the pain sensors in Sherlock's brain.

It was all just electrical impulses and synapses firing, but still, it was _real_: physical _and _emotional. Especially when he'd found out that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't as sociopathic as he'd first presumed. Acts of violence were harder on him than he'd ever expected.

So, an awful lot of trauma had resulted from Mycroft's decision. But was he sorry?

'_. . . Don't ever be sorry . . .'_

There was one thing he could never be sorry for: it was the time he'd spent with John, the chance to apologise, only to find out that – at least, in that reality, but Sherlock supposed that every version of John he'd failed to save felt the same: he'd forgiven him.

"Of course not,"  
>Mycroft smiled despite himself.<br>"You never did learn to express yourself properly, Sherlock,"  
>"Perhaps not," There was a pause, before he added, "Lestrade, the final two – well, there was a Mr. Bewick, who was supposed to be sentenced to death in Minsk, Belarus, a few weeks ago. Moriarty must have gotten him off the charge, with the knowledge I'd turned him down . . . '<em>Revenge is a dish best served cold<em>' I believe was the sentiment. The final was a military man, I'm positive of it. An Irishman, by the name of Moran," He observed at the DI commanded two of his colleagues out of shot to investigate the names, gesturing to them to get it done as swiftly as possible.

"That's brilliant, Sherlock – you're . . . You've done well . . . Perfect, in fact,"  
>"I wouldn't say that,"<br>"Well I would. You got all the names. It's over Sherlock! We did it! … You did it,"  
>". . .What's going to happen to me now?" was Sherlock's only response. It was quiet, and yet he sounded as if he were trying to be as dismissive as if he were asking what the time was.<p>

There was silence for a moment, as Lestrade plucked up the courage to look straight down the camera at Sherlock:  
>"You're dead . . . There's no way you can survive, Sherlock … I'm sorry, you can't-"<br>"I know, I'm not viable outside the Source Code. But I mean . . ." He took a minute to collect his thoughts, before continuing: "Would it be entirely impossible for me to, to … To go in, one last time? Not for you, but – for me?"

Puzzled, Lestrade looked at Anderson off shot. Anderson left his computer for a moment , appearing on Sherlock's phone screen.

"Why? – What for? There's no reason for you to-"  
>"Because, Anderson, I want another chance. I want to do it again, but … Well, there's something I want to do in there. Something I've never done before," Sherlock remained tight-lipped as to what it was, but they could all guess.<br>They all thought he'd want to save John. They all thought he'd want one time, just one, where he didn't let him die.

"I don't see why not," Anderson replied, after what seemed like an eternity. "But don't think you can continue after eight minutes,"  
>"I've been in there for ten minutes before, actually. I've died every time, I haven't ever tried doing nothing, or not getting killed … But it's irrelevant, as long as I get to do this one thing,"<p>

"So, you _want_ to be put in this time?"  
>"Yes. For once, I'm going to do this out of choice. I'm going to succeed, and I'm going to do it on my own terms. Run the Source Code," Sherlock commanded. Anderson obediently, for once, did as he said without a fuss. "Mycroft?"<p>

"Still here," His older brother informed him, his voice wavering a little.  
>"I . . . I just want, to – I just wanted to say, to say that - well, I'm sure you know …"<br>". . . Of course I know, Sherlock," Mycroft acknowledged: it was the best he'd get out of his younger brother.  
>"Send Mummy my regards … Lestrade?"<br>"Yeah?"  
>"Tell Molly I said goodbye. She's the best morgue assistant I have ever had the pleasure of working with. I'd like her to know that,"<br>"Of course-"  
>"A final thing,"<br>"Yes, Sherlock," He said with mock weariness, smiling despite himself at the last batch of dramatic demands that the consulting detective would ever issue in such a way.  
>"You are the best detective I have come across in the police force; I owe almost every case I solved to you. It's been an honour … <em>Sir<em>," He cringed as he said the last bit, never wanting to ever feel inferior to someone whose powers of deduction were _obviously_ worse than his own. But it was a matter of putting things right.

He'd never have to deal with him again, after all. He'd never see him again.  
>There was only one man he wanted to work with from now on.<p>

"Running the Source Code – goodbye, Sherlock. And thanks,"  
>"You're welcome," Sherlock said; politeness cost him nothing, not even time any more. "I'm going to do it this time . . . Something I never had the courage to do before . . ."<p>

Sherlock opened the cab door, and gradually lowered his tired legs to the ground. He could see the light outside increasing in wave; a sunrise creating blots and spillages of pink and orange in the sky. He was in the countryside; amongst English hills; party to a glorious vista; the vast expanses of contoured land about him. In the distance he could see the house he'd grown up in, on the Sussex Downs, where one day he'd hoped to retire to, peaceful at last.

"Are you going to be alright?"  
>It was Mycroft. He was going to a place where even <em>he<em> couldn't control him, or make him safe.

The green grass shone in the gentle, caressing warm light of the sunrise. Sherlock smiled despite himself, and got out of the cab, breathing in cold fresh air, which braced him as if it were the first breath he'd ever taken; it comforted him because it was his last.

A light breeze tousled his shining, black, curling hair: he was the picture of health, just for one moment, as he murmured into his Blackberry before hanging up on his former life:

"I'm going to be _great _. . ."


	6. A Great Man

_**AN: This is going to be the penultimate chapter. The tone is a bit less angsty than the last chapter; it's definitely a change in gears. Read and review please :)  
>Thanks to my beta, SharkByOnly, as usual for putting up with me! - B. <strong>_

* * *

><p>"Hello, Jim,"<p>

Silvery eyes glowed phosphorescent in the darkness, as they sought a point across the room: the eye of the storm, the calm, the deadly quiet.

"Ah! Sherlock, I knew you wouldn't be able to _resist_ . . ." Began Jim Moriarty theatrically. "I didn't think you'd come straight to a locker room, though, I must say. Maybe you've still got it in you to surprise me!"  
>"I'm not here to play games, Jim. I'm here to take my rightful place,"<p>

Sherlock hadn't raised his voice, nor had he moved quickly to interrupt. He'd simply intervened, with low voice, and placid facial expression. His hands were in his pockets. Calmly, he took out his gun. Moriarty watched him with a smile that was tarnished with evil; the smile _looked _unsure, and yet managed to convey the utmost courage in his conviction. It was the type of smile that was a question. He raised his eyebrows, and the question was cemented into both their minds.

"And where might that be, my dear?" He asked, genuine curiosity lacing his lilting, sinister tones.

Sherlock looked down at the gun, and smirked, twisting it this way and that in his hand, watching as the white light shone dully off the matt metal.

Then, just as calmly as he'd gotten it out and as he'd addressed the consulting criminal, he laid it down on the bench in front of him. He slid it along to Moriarty, and it stopped in front of him. The only thing between them was a six foot bench and a hand gun.

Sherlock's smirk prevailed, though to Moriarty his smile was for the first time truly genuine.  
>"At your side, of course,"<p>

Moriarty didn't react for a second, but then his smile slowly, like the creeping of a spider, broadened across his face. He puffed out his cheeks, mimicking Sherlock's act of putting his hands in his pockets.

"I'll bite!" He shrugged as he replied in a shrill voice which he supposed was unsettling, but Sherlock's smile remained the same. Though, it was slowly lessening, as his sincerity shone through. It was no matter to joke over, and they both knew it.

"The flirting's over, Jim," Sherlock replied in a matter-of-fact voice. Moriarty's dark eyes watched him closely, waiting for him to slip up, to no avail.  
>"It's not enough. Your <em>game<em>, you called it -It wasn't a game for me. I can't describe, really – how it made me feel. How _you _made me feel. You said you liked to watch me dance. I'd rather dance with you than for your amusement,"

"Meaning?" Moriarty asked, drawing out the two syllables. His expression had frozen, remaining constant, yet somehow, still volatile.

"Meaning that for me- For me, it was more like practise. Or, more accurately, a master class,"

Moriarty held his chin up, and rubbed it with one hand. Sherlock also took one hand out of his pocket, and gestured as he spoke. He paced too, coming slowly closer with each stride to the consulting criminal, who was walking backwards towards a locker to lean on.

"It never satisfied me. This, this being a detective – yes, it was enough before, but now I feel like I have an opportunity to really be myself. With you, I needn't hide. I've found my equal. My reciprocal.  
>"I don't think we're two sides of the same coin, Jim. I think we're the same side of two different coins. You, with your underworld connections and frankly <em>amazing <em>plotting skills, and me with my deductions . . . I couldn't help feeling, right from the start, right from the killer cabbie you gifted me – I couldn't help thinking, that if we worked together . . . Well, I'm sure you know,"

By this point, they were a metre apart. Sherlock was standing in front of Moriarty, who leant against one of the lockers. With each word, the detective drew closer, his words softer, lower; more melodic.

"It's a pretty speech, Sherlock. Really, it is," Jim assured him with a flash of a wicked, shark-like smile which was equalled with a narrow-eyed grin. It was little more than a murmur.  
>"Hopefully. I've been planning it since the beginning. And yet, when I got here . . . It was the easiest thing in the world to say to you. From the bottom of my – well, I'd say <em>heart<em> . . ."  
>"You think you don't have one?"<br>"I know I don't," Sherlock whispered.

Centimetres. It was all that set them apart, in the whole universe. Not wit, nor morals, nor courage, nor will were different. Nothing was between them other than dead, still centimetres of air.

Jim drew breath, as they looked into one another's eyes. They'd locked eyes a few minutes ago, and had barely refused one another eye-contact since: this trend continued, until they could have mapped out every single blood vessel, every dark fleck in each other's eyes.  
>Moriarty maintained the stare, as he leaned forward, putting his left hand onto Sherlock's right shoulder, and leaning on him.<p>

His whispering words were hot and teasing to Sherlock's sensitive ears:

". . . Then _prove it_ . . ."

Sharply, he walked away, leaving Sherlock to breathe out coolly through his nose and trace his movements with glassy eyes. Moriarty picked up a walkie-talkie from on top of a nearby gym bag, which didn't look as if it contained sweaty workout clothes as much as it did one or two AK-47s. He turned and faced Sherlock as he spoke into the device, a sinister smile curling around his words, changing the sound of them as if he could barely contain his glee.

"Change of plans, Moran!" He chimed, his eyes lingering as always on Sherlock's face. "Ditch the bomb; tell the others to stay where they are. Go and fetch the good doctor, would you? Bring him to the locker room,"  
>"Why, sir?"<br>"Oh, I don't know, Sebastian . . ." Moriarty said charmingly, "It's an _experiment_ . . ."

The words were spoken like a boast or a flirt, as was standard with Jim, but rather than put up a defensive front, Sherlock smiled horribly along with his new Irish friend. His sharp features contorted into almost rapturous joy: Moriarty had to admit, even _he _hadn't seen his 'adversary' as being capable of such a rictus grin. It looked genuine. It was time to see.

Sherlock straightened his suit, and sorted out his cuffs, brushing the sleek black material while Moriarty watched on, observing him in infatuation and in hatred. His volatile nature didn't permit him one or the other. He was all in. There was no room for half measures, only for _wholes_.

Sherlock knew he was watching. He licked his lips, and stood up straight. He held his head high. Not even when the doctor was dragged by two snipers he identified as Sebastian Moran and James Windibank did he even flinch.

They kicked in the door, and threw the pitiful human being onto the floor. With his hands bound in front of him, he couldn't break his fall, and his face hit the floor. Sherlock watched him, looking down his nose and at Doctor Watson for the one thing that he most certainly was: a stain on a white tiled floor.

A stain. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Oh, darling! You made it!" Moriarty exclaimed brightly, walking over to John and bending down, having a quick look at him as if inspecting livestock. He clearly had multiple contusions, including rib injuries, evident from the red blood stains on his shirt and cardigan, as well as the facial problems he had from being thrown onto the floor.

"Oh dear, oh dear! Put up a little fight on the way down here, did we?" He tutted, shaking his head.  
>"Sherlock-"John began frantically, his voice strained with agony, but he didn't get a word in before Moran gave him a harsh kick in the stomach, as a warning.<br>"– Oh, don't speak, Johnny-boy! Not until you're spoken to . . . It's just not good manners! - Thanks for sorting him out, Seb," He then turned to Sherlock, and asked him, "You didn't train him very well, did you?"

Sherlock merely glanced down in a cursory assessment of John, and curled his top lip in the slightest display of revulsion.

"One does what one can with damaged goods, Jim. I'm sure you understand," He dismissed loftily. "I'm not totally free of baggage myself,"  
>"I'm willing to make an exception, in your case, Sherlock . . . There's just, a few loose ends, you see," He added casually.<p>

He sauntered over to the gun Sherlock had slid along the bench, and picked it up, holding it with his thumb and forefinger with a disgusted expression. "Is this his?" He asked, pointing to the gun and then to John. The former soldier had scrambled up by now, and was kneeling on the floor. He made to stand up, but Moriarty suddenly took the gun in his hand, holding it properly all of a sudden and pointing it straight at his head. Sherlock did nothing.

"I think kneeling's fine, don't you?"  
>John's eyes were wishing death for the first time ever upon another man, and Sherlock noted that. It was . . . Fascinating. But only that.<p>

"Loose ends. I don't like them. They tend to trip you up in the end . . . You wouldn't mind tying this one up for me, would you?"

Sherlock's calm facial expression didn't at all waver, as he said, "Not if it'll make you trust me,"  
>"I don't trust anyone,"<br>"You _should _trust me, Jim," Sherlock assured him, "I've been your worst enemy. I know what you're like to be up against, so I know better than anyone how much I don't want to ever oppose you again,"  
>"-keep your friends close, but your enemies closer . . ." Moriarty said, with an understanding nod and an approving facial expression which was, as always, edged with cynicism. "And believe me, Sherlock," He began, approaching him under John's disbelieving and watchful gaze.<p>

He reached his enemy, and walked around him, behind his back; when he was behind Sherlock, he finished his sentence: "I intend to keep you _very _close . . . As close as possible . . . I hope you're _ready _for that . . ."  
>"I look forward to it," Sherlock murmured, just loud enough for John to hear, with a cold smile. He twisted his head toward Moriarty, his face for once looking almost playful. His lips parted, and he smirked. Moriarty looked as if he felt he'd been spoiled, grinning with glee at the prospect of <em>owning<em> his most formidable enemy.  
>Because now, he was an enemy no more: Sherlock was nothing but his most hard-fought conquest. He always, <em>always<em> got his man. Even Sherlock Holmes came round in the end.

John felt sick to his stomach: what was happening was abundantly clear to him, and anguish began to replace the anger and defiance in his emotive eyes. Sherlock had been turned. He'd given up. He'd conceded defeat, and he was basically agreeing to be a madman's _play-thing _for the rest of his life. Surely he couldn't want _this_?

But it was happening right in front of him, and he could see that he wasn't even bargaining, or looking upset. It was like he'd planned this all along. It was like he was seeing the _real_ Sherlock, though he refused to accept that explanation.

"Well, then! Any last words, Johnny-boy? – Oh, you can speak now. Nasty Sebastian won't hurt you! I'll leave that to Sherlock,"

John looked up into Sherlock's eyes, and his tears began to well. He shook his head, and his sturdy, stoical face cracked under the pressure.  
>"<em>No<em> . . ." He whispered. Sherlock looked down at him pitifully. "No, Sherlock, not you-" He begged, "- you can't have wanted _this_? To - to work with _him_?"  
>"Don't be an idiot, Doctor Watson. Of <em>course<em> I wanted to work with him. I most certainly didn't want to be stuck with you, tethered to you all my life like some great limping _mistake_, spoiling my inhumanity," Sherlock told him nonchalantly, looking him in the eye the entire time.

Jim laughed with shrill delight at the brutality of it all.

John was taken aback. There was nothing he could say. His entire relationship with Sherlock, it had all been a lie – all this time, he'd been thinking about someone else. All this time, he'd _wanted _someone else. That was what really twisted the knife. He'd been living a lie: a surreal, rose-tinted, mad but _beautiful _lie.

"So this is it, then," He added shortly, though his voice broke half way through. Jim rolled his eyes in disgust. There was nothing else he could think of.  
>"Yes. Gun, please," Sherlock asked Moriarty. "-I think the doctor's gun would be appropriate. I always did love to be dramatic," He added.<br>"You and I both. I'm starting to see what you mean, Sherlock. Very clever . . . Then again, I'd be a fool to expect anything else," Jim cooed, as if talking to a beloved pet. Sherlock's proud expression made it clear that he loved every minute of being Jim's new favourite.

He handed the gun over: as it passed between them, the Irishman's hand brushed against the Englishman's: it lingered, and the skin on skin contact felt like static electricity building up, sparking to a climax.

Sherlock took the safety off John's gun, and aimed it at John's head. Moriarty stood behind the former-soldier, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Moran looked intently at Moriarty, and Windibank shifted uncomfortably.

"Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes. Sorry I tried to make you human," John said bitterly, yet sincerely.  
>Sherlock snorted, sounding disgusted, and then replied:<br>"I assure you, John . . . You did more than try,"

Then, with two gunshots, it was far from over.

Moran collapsed to the floor, brain tissue scattered behind him like an explosion of blood; Windibank gave a melancholy cry and flew to the floor, in shock and clutching at his shattered shinbone, as it gushed blood onto the tiles, the thick liquid pulsing out and shining almost black against the contrasting blank slates.

And Jim . . . Jim looked ever so unsurprised. Even as Sherlock bade him goodbye, looking deep into his eyes with a hateful expression which conveyed all of the emotion he had suppressed, he looked happy to have met someone as cunning as himself, or at least intelligent enough to beat him:  
>". . . I beat, you. I finally beat you, Jim . . . Game's over. I won – <em>We <em>won,"

The final shot didn't even make him flinch, as it sprayed back tiny droplets of blood onto his otherwise pristine suit.  
>For minutes and minutes he stood, just looking at what he'd done, who he'd killed, what he'd finally managed to put right. His arm didn't even leave the position it was in after shooting the psychopath he'd once, a long time ago, thought was his equal.<p>

John had been clutching his head in his bound hands, simply waiting for it all to end: he'd waited for the dust to clear, and to tentatively make the enquiry as to what Sherlock had been thinking, and how he'd managed to pull that off, and if he was alright and how he knew that would work.  
>. . . But he couldn't. His words were seized away, lost to his fear and breathless uncertainty.<br>He felt scared of Sherlock.

Oblivious, Sherlock laid down his gun on the floor and hauled him up by the shoulders. He looked into his eyes.

John groaned slightly with the movement, his ribs still agonisingly painful, although the adrenaline was coursing through his veins to dull the pain, and make him less concerned about it than he was about the owner of those big, silvery pale-blue eyes.

"Are you alright?" He urged, almost aggressively protective; and again, when John didn't answer straight away, "_Are you alright_?"  
>". . . Yes, Sherlock . . ." He rasped, though his eyes were still fraught with fear, and he thought he'd never see Sherlock the same way again. He shrank back from his flatmate.<br>"– Is it just your ribs?" Demanded Sherlock.  
>"- Yes, Sherlock-"<br>"They didn't –you know Moriarty, he's a madman, he could have ordered them, to, to – they didn't–?"  
>"Didn't – No! No – no, Sherlock, I'm fine . . . I'm just . . ."<br>His eyes betrayed him; even pain couldn't distract them from portraying their true, overriding terror.

Eventually, Sherlock perceived it, when he glanced up from fiddling with the cable ties they'd used to bind John.  
>"You're . . . You look – scared?"<br>"I almost died, Sherlock-"  
>"That's not it . . . Oh . . . Oh, you thought – you thought I was being serious? You thought that was real . . . ?"<p>

John remained tensed and still, and Sherlock realised that his performance had been a little too good.

"I'm sorry for scaring you, John . . . I didn't mean to – I didn't believe in all those things, all the things I said, I would never-"  
>"Alright, alright – just, get me out of these, would you? Moran's got a knife in his boot, he used it to threaten me . . ." John completed the sentence, just about, though his words grew fainter and more unintelligible, and he lolled a little in Sherlock's arms. He laid the doctor down on the bench on his back, leaving him to forage in Moran's boot for a way of releasing his now-choking friend.<p>

With utter disregard for the corpse, he snatched up the boot, retrieved the knife in question, and ran over to release John's wrists from the cutting, inescapable bonds. They were red-raw, and there were bleeding, open wounds on them that were beginning now to bleed heavily. Sherlock knew that he would need to stop the bleeding, or else John would lose too much blood.

He cast his eyes frantically about, and spotted some nearby towels. If he could just tie them tight enough, he could put off the blood loss somewhat until the ambulance arrived . . .

He grabbed them, and began to staunch John's wounds. After he'd done so, he turned his head and snapped at Windibank:  
>"I want you to know that I've only got one shot at this, and I kept <em>you<em> alive for a reason, James," He spat, and approached him quickly, crouching down to his level and seizing him by the collar. "You're only in this because of the debt, yes? Well, now that's void, and you're going to comply with me.  
>"I'm going to be <em>kind<em>, James. I'm going to let _you _call the emergency services, and report your entire team, as well as yours and John's injuries, okay?"

The terror in the older man's eyes was complete: his blood-drenched hand tried to push down on his wound to stop the bleeding, but it was too much pain for him to endure. He managed to nod once.

"I'm glad we're clear – Speak," Sherlock dialled 999, and shoved his phone up to the unconventional thug's ear:

"Hello? . . . Police, please – an incident, at the pool – There's a _bomb_," He said through gritted teeth, finally daring to take his eyes off Sherlock's to squeeze them shut. The consulting detective's eyes flicked down to the bullet wound in the criminal's leg: nothing fatal. It could get nasty if left too long, but hopefully could be remedied in time for the court case  
>". . . Two dead already, shot – Mr. Jim Moriarty, Colonel Sebastian Moran. . . Two injured, as of now – one John, uh, John Watson . . . I'm James Windibank, I was supposed to be part of the operation, but – um, he's got broken ribs . . . I've been shot in the – the leg . . ."<p>

Sherlock watched the conversation intently. He'd left his gun on the floor by John, but he didn't need it. All the time, Windibank was looking with complete fear into his almost insane eyes, which dared him to put a word wrong.

The conversation was over, at long last, and Sherlock snatched his phone back, shoving it into his pocket and running over to John.  
>"Alright, stay still-" He held John's head, and it wasn't the first time they'd been in this position, although last time was a lot worse, and it was several worlds – several <em>realities<em> away . . . But still, again, John overcame his pain with predictable stoicism to close his hands around Sherlock's black, curling hairs.

Sherlock smiled, and though it wasn't yet over, it might as well have been. Nothing could get better than this. He took out his phone, and watched the screen, as an alarm suddenly went off.

Eight minutes. It had been eight minutes, but each and every second was eclipsed by warm, rough fingers curling through his hair; by a lined, imperfectly pristine face smiling through the pain up at him; by glowing brown eyes delving deep into his own with a new sort of love that need not have been measured to assure that it would go on forever. . .

. . . _Forever_. The strangest, most unreachable prospect. It had been achieved, if only for eight minutes; he'd been a great man, if only for eight minutes.

Sherlock bent down, and grasped John in a hug that he was sure wouldn't hurt his friend too much. He'd never enjoyed bodily contact, but he would make one brilliant exception for this last second, especially if it afforded him one last whiff of John's familiar musk; his comforting, homely smell: one that Sherlock would miss if he . . . If he just . . .

. . . _Disappeared _. . .

* * *

><p>The monitor flat-lined, right on the dot of eight minutes, as Molly flicked the switch.<br>They'd all agreed, in the end, that Sherlock knew best. He always had. Why should he be wrong this time, concerning his own death? It was the most difficult thing one could face, and he was more equipped than most to deal with it, as was usually the case with the great Sherlock Holmes.

Molly wept openly, as they stood around the cold metal table where Sherlock's corpse lay, wires threading in and out of his translucent skin like a running stitch, and sensors attached to his temples. Strangely, it was all a shock to them that he wasn't breathing. It was one of the most obvious parts of being dead, but still, it surprised them to see him so void of dramatic, intelligent _life_.

Lestrade silently left the room before he made a spectacle of himself, yet again. Anderson followed suit out of respect, and then Donovan. Even the latter two looked a little watery-eyed.

"Goodbye, little brother," Mycroft said, and through her tears Molly could see that he, too, was crying. He took out his blue pocket square, and dabbed at his red eyes for the last time, before he left her alone in the morgue.

She looked down, and wiped her eyes clumsily with the back of her hand. Down at the pale, bloodless skin; down at the angular bones; the shrapnel wounds; the harsh burns; the hastily-patched-up holes in his chest cavity, and the places where she could see fibula and tibia; she looked down at a hospital gown, and a handsome flour-white face, still beautiful in death.

One day, she hoped that even if she had such a collection of wounds, she could be as brave and do something as amazing as he had done today in the same condition.

"Rest in peace, Sherlock Holmes," She mumbled, and used a sheet to cover him at long last.

He deserved to be at peace now.

He was done.


	7. The Letter

**_A/N: This is the final chapter of this particular story. I'm putting it to rest, at last! Another one bites the dust. I hope you enjoyed it, although it made my beta feel very sad indeed. Reviews are always appreciated! Thanks as always to said beta, sharkbyonly. Enjoy this last chapter, and I'll be writing the sequel to A Study In Silver from now on, to be published in 2012 :)_**

* * *

><p><em>221b Baker Street<br>NW1  
>London<br>13:18_

_Mycroft,_

_I think a letter will be the best way of getting your attention, without attracting that of others simultaneously. It is of the utmost importance that this letter remains utterly confidential, unless specified in my forthcoming instructions._

_The topic is a sensitive one. I am writing to you in secrecy because of this, and because I don't want to risk my reputation for the sake of something that may never come to pass._

_We've never shared the best relationship and I know it's at least partly my fault. I need you to disregard this for my own sake, and for the sake of others who may be at risk if you ignore my request, and for a moment consider me once more your younger brother, in need – much to my distaste – of your assistance._

_I need you, also, to take me seriously in my narrative, though at times it obviously seems too fantastic to be true. I sometimes wonder myself whether or not it is real, but I have the memories of things that I have seen and done for sure, and these are proof enough for me. I can only hope they're proof enough for you, too._

_The truth is, I am not from this world; or rather, I'm not from this reality. I am from a reality where different events occurred on the night at the pool when Moriarty died. This sounds farfetched, but I ask you to suspend your disbelief and read on._

_I lived through the situation, but unfortunately, in my world, it concluded in my own death, and John being in a coma almost certainly for life. However, my body was used by the police for the purpose of finding those responsible. Via some complicated procedure I wasn't hitherto aware of, they used my memories to run an extremely hi-tech computer programme called the Source Code._

_At first I had no knowledge of what the Source Code was, and I have only slightly more knowledge as I write to you now. All I know is that it put me, every time it was run, into another reality. I used the technology, at the behest of DI Lestrade and Anderson, to ascertain the identities of the snipers that were responsible for my death in the first place, and for aiding Moriarty in his terrorist attacks. It fed from my memories, and each time, I had eight minutes or so to achieve my goal._

_Each time I used the programme, I would die and be sent back to my own reality once more, where I would give the police the identities they needed. After I had completed my task, I requested that I be put into another Source Code, purely with the objective of saving innocent lives at least once, and doing what was right. This sounds sentimental, but I assure you, the things I had to do to get those names – the acts of violence that I shall remember forever – allowed for some emotional indulgence afterwards, though it's uncharacteristic._

_The final time, I ended up in this reality, and you know what happened next. I killed Moriarty and Moran, I saved John, and all of the snipers were caught. Somehow, though, a glitch in the programme which I oddly didn't anticipate meant that I could continue to live out the rest of my life in this better reality, while in my native reality, I was dead and buried._

_I feel it necessary to impart this knowledge to you, as I cannot tell John. I feel I owe it to him to let him believe that I will always put right that which I have done wrong, including inviting Moriarty to the pool in the first place, which I'll admit here was my own very foolish idea. It's a decision I'll lament forever as my darkest, most idiotic moment. I want to maintain the fiction that I never have endangered, and never will endanger needlessly, his life without saving it, as I did in my own reality._

_It would be a huge favour for you to comply with this request, and not inform John of these happenings. Perhaps, one day, I shall have courage enough to tell him them myself._

_Once again, I must ask you to bear with me, Mycroft. You must know by now that, while sometimes prone to dramatic behaviour or theatricality, this doesn't come under either of those brackets, and is so obscenely outlandish that it couldn't fail to be true. How else, I ask you, would I have known to go to the locker-room at the back of the pool rather than the main room, where I'd have the best chance of finding my adversary? How else would I have known the identity of James Windibank and that he would be eager to comply with me once his boss was dead? How else would I have known the exact number, and exact identities, of the snipers stationed above and around the pool room, without being told? The information I have given to the police, in regards to these facts I'm afraid, has been fabricated to protect what truly happened to me._

_It has always been a mantra of mine that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. In this case, I must ask you to refrain from eliminating the impossible, to accept a seemingly impossible truth, which I know to be correct. A method of corroborating my story is stated below, should you need further proof; I wouldn't blame you to look for empirical evidence, as I myself would have disregarded my own narrative as fiction. Long ago_

_Now that I have given you the reams of background information that you require to comprehend – after a few reads, I assume – my upcoming request, I shall tell you what it is: I'd like you to go to Anderson, and give him this letter. I'd then like you to request that, in this reality, my body not be used for Source Code programmes again. Tell him I have had enough of reliving of my worst moment for a lifetime, and that I don't wish to repeat it._

_I would also request that you ask politely, in your customary way, that he cease operations of the Source Code technology on non-consenting individuals. My body was not, I repeat, that of a consenting individual. Please: tell him that only those donated to science should be used, and even then, the situation should be explained to the subjects before they're thrown in, blind as I was, to a frightening world they can't comprehend. It's unpleasant, and it haunts me to this day._

_If he still remains doubtful, then by all means recite this simple statement: this is the empirical evidence I alluded to earlier. The evidence is not the statement, but his reaction to it. If he is currently experimenting with the Source Code technology, ready for use on cadavers, this simple statement should be enough to shock him into compliance with my request:_

"_Soo Lin, Brian and Eddie are smugglers. One of them stole the Jade Pin. The Jade Pin was given as a gift to an employee at Sebastian's bank. Her name is Amanda."_

_If he knows anything about the Source Code – which he will – he'll recognise it._

_I have come to the end of my largely impossible and unbelievable narrative, which I have to ask that you trust. Blind faith doesn't quite cut the feat of belief I'm asking you to perform here, but I hope the few shreds of evidence, and my word, will be enough to convince you._

_Furthermore, I must ask that we don't talk about or reference this when we see one another. Perhaps one day, when I've worked up enough courage to talk to John about it, I'll mention it and we can talk freely but in private about it. Until then, I must ask that we cease any form of correspondence on the topic. However, if you do believe that I haven't gone mad at last and am actually telling the truth, I request that next time you come to 221b Baker Street, you wear a blue pocket square. If you don't, wear a red one. _

_But until then, farewell, because this is the only indication I will give you that I'm from another reality, and I shan't acknowledge it if you bring it up. I'll be the same Sherlock you always converse with, barbed and cold, unwilling to speak with you._

_So, if only for my sake and not too for your own personal store of knowledge, I wish that you trust me. If you don't, then I'll accept it._

_Though it would seem totally as if this letter wasn't penned by me, if it wasn't in my own script, I feel the need to sign off this heavy letter thus:_

_With love from your younger, deceased brother,_

_Sherlock Holmes_

* * *

><p>Sherlock folded the letter in three, and slipped it securely into the envelope, before attaching a first class stamp to it. He sellotaped it shut, and dutifully inscribed the front with Mycroft's office address. All post was signed for there. It wouldn't ever be lost, or unattended.<p>

For the first few days, he'd expected to go every time he'd fallen asleep; to slip away, as the 'glitch' that meant he could keep on living was solved.

As a consequence, he hadn't bothered taking cases; he'd eaten whatever he'd liked; he'd even let his feelings be known to John – as soon as they'd shut the door, he'd made them known very well. _Particularly_ on the sofa.

In short, he'd spent every day like his last. It was too good to be true, that he'd simply gotten off this lightly. Yes, in his native world, he was dead. But he'd been saved, to live in a world that he couldn't have made more brilliant if he'd purpose-built it himself. He was dead and alive, at one time: he was Schrödinger's consulting detective.

After a while, it'd become apparent that the 'glitch' was irreversible. He was going to have to live out his whole life in this world, though it was hardly a chore. He'd recommenced his normal life, but with a few minor changes. He'd taken cases, of course, but more than usual; helping with more mundane ones and slowly becoming less utterly abhorrent to the staff of Scotland Yard. He was still rude and cold when it came to Anderson, of course, but he tried to be less harsh on Lestrade.

Dying, it seemed, was the only thing that could kick-start an attitude change in the great Sherlock Holmes. But it still seemed that nothing could stop him from getting bored, or conducting experiments in the kitchen sink, or refusing to eat and sleep during the most perplexing cases. Some things never changed, even in death.

Breaking his pensive reflection, Boswell jumped up onto his lap, making him jump. When he realised it was just the cat, he stared at it quizzically. For some reason, it preferred him to John. He couldn't tell any reason why: John probably had a comfier lap, and he probably smelt more homely. John was always warmer than he was. Why, then, would the golden tabby cat never fail to jump onto his lap whenever he sat down for any length of time?

Sherlock didn't mind, though. He found that owning a cat was actually quite pleasing, and not that much work, after they'd convinced Mrs. Hudson to allow it. It was relaxing for him to sit with Boswell on his lap, and feel calmed by the low purring he emitted; it quelled the feverish anticipation of a new case tenfold, to stroke his soft fur as he and John engaged in some sort of mindless task like watching rubbish television programmes of an evening.

The noise of the tape being dispensed had made John look up from what he was doing: using the blank side of the front of a Christmas card to write a shopping list on the kitchen counter. He saw Sherlock's bemused expression, and smirked. He'd been caught off guard by the cat.

"Look who's the favourite! … Who's the letter for?" He added, but looked down again, scribbling. His tongue slipped out of the side of his mouth with concentration, and Sherlock's sombre brow, fresh from writing the solemn letter, softened with adoration.  
>"Just a case summary I need mailed to Mycroft – you know what a nosy bugger he is. One from a while back – before even your time, maybe …"<br>"Must be ancient," John mumbled to himself as he returned to the list.

Sherlock shuddered. It was a cold sensation, spreading from outside to inside, and then back again. His muscles tensed, and his fingers clenched into claws. His eyes squeezed shut, and he couldn't help but let out a shuddering sigh of discomfort.

John looked up once more, staring concerned at the consulting detective. Sherlock smiled weakly, before a more a smirk sneaked onto his face and lifted one side of his lips involuntarily:  
>"Just someone walking over my grave," He muttered in a low voice.<p>

John finished the list, stuffing it in his pocket and walking over to where Sherlock was seated. He reached into the sleuth's jacket, his warm hand brushing against his chest, and took out his wallet from where he knew it was stowed.  
>"Well, tell them to bugger off, from me!" John replied humorously, before leaning to kiss Sherlock on the forehead, brushing his hair softly, as if he were the cat, as he did so. It was a brief caress, but infinitely appreciated: nothing further needed to be added, and they were fully aware of it too.<p>

"I'll leave you two alone. I know when I'm not wanted-" John said, indicating Boswell. "-See you later, Sherlock. Do you want me to post that on the way?" He asked, indicating the letter.

"That would be great," Sherlock replied, but his voice faltered: "John-"  
>"It's a case, it's confidential, I know, I know – don't worry. I won't look," He promised. They stared into one another's eyes for a moment: John's positivity melted all the hesitancy from Sherlock's gaze, and left no room for anything but affection for the man whose life he'd saved, unbeknownst to anyone but himself.<p>

"All the secrets – it must get annoying. _I _must get annoying, I … I can only apologise. I should be more open. I'm sorry," Sherlock told John shortly, as he walked towards the door.

He realised in that second that when he'd met John, he wasn't the man he was now. Of course, now, he'd experienced what it was like to be bereaved of someone you loved; what it was like to kill to avenge them.

He'd been contented to sleep alone, when he slept, before John came, and before that fateful night. Now, he couldn't go to bed alone without feeling like every time he shut his eyes, a coffin lid was being slammed over his head, and the soil poured over his own casket. He felt like if he put his hands out to his side, he'd feel padded, enclosing walls; he felt fearful to open his eyes, that he might see quilted white satin centimetres from his head.

But when he slept with John by his side, he felt he could stretch out, in the knowledge that something, _someone_ warm would be there to comfort him; that if he opened his eyes, he'd see a deliciously normal, beautiful man who by rights he didn't deserve.

Everyone got second chances, though. This was about his third second chance, what with the drugs, and the pool, and the constant pushing people away he'd indulged in throughout his life. He was disinclined to acknowledge it, but perhaps he was … _Lucky_.

John turned around one last time in response to an apology that was obviously unnatural for him to utter, and that he wouldn't have made a few months ago. He shook his head lightly, with a serious yet sincere and warm expression, as Sherlock considered with a softened stare how much strength it must take for one to be so gentle and kind when faced with such an unyielding, difficult character as himself.  
>John's face was luminous and bright, the picture of forgiveness, as he spoke his soft, eternal reply:<br>"… _Don't ever be sorry_ …"


End file.
